The Granserian Way
by Demonic Weasel
Summary: Grans has always been a place of brutal wars and bloody emotions. The world has irrevocably changed with the rise of Zeon and the wars of light and shadow. The Granserian way has not. Rated for language, violence and sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue:

The King Who Would Not Die

And so the next stage of the epic comes to life in Granseal. The fact of an SF2 fic is not very remarkable, I'd say that about 60% of the fics currently up are SF2 based (although that may have changed now that MartinIII has been publishing) but this is my first venture into SF2. A few technical notes must be noted, I own the plot, dialogue and all original characters. Sega and Camelot own bits and pieces of everything else. Oh, and this is AU, which should be self-evident given the continuity this has with "Shining Legacy." Enjoy.

Baby, I've been waiting,  
I've been waiting night and day.  
I didn't see the time,  
I waited half my life away.  
There were lots of invitations  
and I know you sent me some,  
but I was waiting  
for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

I know you really loved me.  
but, you see, my hands were tied.  
I know it must have hurt you,  
it must have hurt your pride  
to have to stand beneath my window  
with your bugle and your drum,  
and me I'm up there waiting  
for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

Ah I don't believe you'd like it,  
You wouldn't like it here.  
There ain't no entertainment  
and the judgements are severe.  
The Maestro says it's Mozart  
but it sounds like bubble gum  
when you're waiting  
for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

Waiting for the miracle  
There's nothing left to do.  
I haven't been this happy  
since the end of World War II.

Nothing left to do  
when you know that you've been taken.  
Nothing left to do  
when you're begging for a crumb  
Nothing left to do  
when you've got to go on waiting  
waiting for the miracle to come.

I dreamed about you, baby.  
It was just the other night.  
Most of you was naked  
Ah but some of you was light.  
The sands of time were falling  
from your fingers and your thumb,  
and you were waiting  
for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

Ah baby, let's get married,  
we've been alone too long.  
Let's be alone together.  
Let's see if we're that strong.  
Yeah let's do something crazy,  
something absolutely wrong  
while we're waiting  
for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

When you've fallen on the highway  
and you're lying in the rain,  
and they ask you how you're doing  
of course you'll say you can't complain --  
If you're squeezed for information,  
that's when you've got to play it dumb:  
You just say you're out there waiting  
for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

Written by Leonard Cohen and Sharon Robinson, Stranger Music Inc. (BMI) and Robinhill Music (ASCAP).

It was an unseasonable rain. The sky was dark and thick with its fury, and the wind stirred the rain as well, driving the water where it would. All things considered, it was not a night to conclude a bloody conflict, let alone other less extreme matters. But it was the only night available to them. The only night available to Grans.

Bowie knew that all hope for the future resided with this single venture, that death or life for Grans rested on the outcome of this night alone. He remembered dazedly that he had advocated this plan, argued fiercely, determinedly, even desperately for it along with many of the others, though not all of them. He remembered that. And now the moment was upon them. The moment to act. The only moment.

The moment had been upon them already, he realized abruptly, as his sword clashed with another one. At a glance, Bowie could see that he had encountered a nobleman of some sort, by the relative richness of his armor, and the skill of his sword. And that meant… Squinting through the rain, Bowie could just manage to see his target. Blocking another cut from his opponent, Bowie roared, "Galam! It's you I want, you bastard!"

"No," shrieked the nobleman, furiously whipping his blade around to catch Bowie's, throwing him back slightly. "You dare," he gibbered, his eyes glowing with passion. "Die you foul Gransi!"

Bowie grunted in pain as the sheer weight of the attack forced him back half a step. Twisting his leg around, he sharply dragged his own blade down the edge of his opponent's sword, forcing the edge down, nearly slashing the nobleman's foot.

The noble lept back, awkwardly, hatred twisting his features. Bowie moved forward, confident, cat-quick, but the noble was fast too. He barely managed to flick his sword back up to catch noble's sword. Striking hard, he pushed back, to keep his opponent off-balance.

Stumbling and desperately trying to bring his blade down from overhead the noble spat out a string of obscenities. Bowie stabbed him through the chest. He squinted through the poring sheets of rain. Was Galam still there?

He advanced cautiously, unable to see very far ahead. His foot slipped on a stone. He cursed, righting himself. The field seemed to be deserted, but he could hear the conflict still raging, as though from a great distance. But where…?

He shook his head dazedly, frowning at the fog curling up around him. Where had the fog come from? The thought was slow and he could almost see it, sluggish and viscous in his mind… _"_Muddled," he muttered thickly. "Muddled," he insisted a bit more easily.

The fog was… receding? No, he realized. There was even more coming in. A blinding flash snapped across his vision, and the sensation of it was as hard as a slap. He winced, blinked, and stared dumbly ahead for a moment.

The mist was gone and the shouting louder. And ahead of him was unmistakably the royal back of King Galam of Galam. And there was… _Rhode_, he thought numbly, but strangled the impulse to cry out.

He charged forward, his blade out and at the ready. This war would end here. It had been ending for months, ever since Zeon had taken the majority of his forces to Rune. King Galam darted forward; spinning a staff… there was another explosive burst of light from Rhode's cannon.

Galam's staff slammed directly into the oncoming missile, and the burst of light turned back…"RHODE," screamed Bowie as Rhode's own missile rebounded into him. Bowie's blade was a brilliant flash of metal, streaking out to cut Galam in two, when the king turned impossibly quickly, his staff catching the sword and pushing it back.

Bowie stared in horror at his adversary. Galam was scarcely human looking. Where once he had been an old man, his face was cracked, dry, twisted as though it were a very flexible piece of wood, and the strength of that block! The speed of his movements!

A grating deep chuckle found its way past the twisted lips. "The king," it laughed mockingly. "The king of nothing."

"You," Bowie snarled helplessly, lunging in again. "You've killed my friend!"

The demon's eyes gleamed coldly. "We are the only ones here, king of nothing."

It was, Bowie realized abruptly, absolutely true. He was back in the misty… grey place. He and King Galam. He gritted his teeth, staying down in a defensive position, his blade warily menacing the demon. "What is this?"

Galam made no move to attack. "Your destiny. My destiny." It laughed. "Somebody's destiny."

Bowie lunged in at a lower target this time. The staff flashed down, easily blocking the cut. "You persist in your hatred. Is this what you want, king of nothing?"

It was baiting him. He knew it was baiting him. But neither was the possessed king attacking him. Bowie lunged forward a few more times, attempted a few slices, but King Galam easily blocked them all. "Why," Bowie said at last, keeping his sword point directed towards the king's chest, "do you call me a king?"

"Ah," cackled Galam. "An interesting question at last! It is because I _see,_ boy. I see."

Bowie abruptly flung himself forward, his sword wrestling past the staff. Galam's blow nearly tore the blade from his hand. He cursed helplessly, well aware that he was overmatched.

"Yes," the demon whispered. "I see, boy. You are filled with dreams of the world. You see how it should be. Even as we have seen how it should be. Join that dream. Join the power that awaits the king of nothing!"

The words swept over him like a cracking whip. "No…" grunted Bowie.

_It was a bright morning. Bowie walked slowly through the streets of Granseal enjoying the early hour. He took a swift look around, making sure there were no citizens nearby. There would be no need to chafe under their unkind eyes this morning. _

_A grin opened on his face. It was perfect. It was still a few hours before he'd have to get to the school and listen to that old goat Astral drone on and on about things he only half-understood and didn't care about. _

_He whistled lightly, making his way to the apple orchard. He'd be exhausted come the evening, but it would be worth doing this for the next several months, if that was what it took. He'd train as long and hard as it took. He would train until he was just as good as the guards. Until he was better. He was better. _

_Bowie came to a halt, and slowly drew the sword he'd taken from home. He wasn't actually supposed to take it, but what did that matter? His father was long dead, and he had been a great warrior, Bowie knew that. And even though he'd never known his father, his voice was the most critical in Bowie's mind. Why was Chester already better than Bowie? He could hear his father whispering these barbed slurs, and it spurred him on to do better. He would train in the apple orchard, out of the sight of all of the others as long as it took. _

_And only then, only when that succeeded could he have what he wanted, what had always been denied to him. The respect of the world. _

"NO!" Bowie shook uncontrollably at that buried, years old memory as it surfaced in his mind. "It wasn't like that!"

The demon before him laughed again. "I see all, king of nothing. Your wishes are fractured, as but a child. The path is before you. Seize the dreams, king of nothing. Together, we can make the world into what it could be. What we know it should be."

"Damn you," screamed Bowie. "My mind is my own. _My own_! You will not touch it. It is not yours to touch!"

"You cannot have it both ways, king of nothing. It is in your blood, this madness for respect. If you do not join me you will be a wreck. I already see every thought you have had, everything you have done. Your determination to be the best regardless of the cost…"

"It was not like that," Bowie howled again, throwing himself into a frenzied attack. The demon easily parried each of his attacks, but Bowie was driven on by an almost manic need to prove himself to this foe. This one would finally see. The words poured out of him even as the attack did.

"You see, you say! Then you finally see. I had to do it. After father died, my mother had nothing, nothing! I was all that was left, and we had nothing. We had scorn! I had to do it! I had to."

"You had to," the demon nodded, keeping its flawless defense. "You had to make them see that you were better than anyone."

"No," Bowie snarled. "That was a fantasy. I had to do right by the world. I had to help them dammit." Fueled by an abrupt despair, his helpless attack slid away. "You killed my friend," he told Galam again.

The king shook his head. "We are the only ones here, king of nothing."

"If that's the case, then this is my dream, and I determine how it goes, you murderous son of a bitch!" Bowie flung himself into an offensive again, praying that it would keep Galam off balance long enough to not grasp his true plan.

Galam's eyes bore into Bowie's. "There are no crimes when you are the only one left."

The words halted Bowie in mid-attack. "What?" No crimes… It wasn't true! He struggled to speak, but found that he couldn't force the words out. If there was truly no one left then…

_"Why you would to go exploring today, of all days," Bowie muttered for the umpteenth time. _

_Jaha, who had taken point seeing as it had been his idea in the first place, shook his head determinedly. "Why don't you see, Bowie? Today is great!" _

_"Today it's raining. Why explore in the rain?" _

_Jaha turned around, his eleven year old face glowing with earnestness. "Because that's what real adventurers do," he proclaimed a happy grin on his face. "Go out, braving the elements…" _

_Bowie's eyes widened, staring behind his dwarven friend. "Jaha…" _

_Jaha failed to take heed of the warning (_or had it been frightened? Bowie couldn't remember)_ tone to his voice. "I'm telling you Bowie," he began again, when the giant rat burst from the undergrowth, its sharp fangs burying deep into Jaha's unprotected back. _

_Sputtering in terror, Bowie stumbled away from the gruesome sight, even as Jaha's horrified eyes watched him. The rat was a hideous monster, massive and fat with malicious small eyes. _

Bowie blinked hard. In the end that day he had fought to save Jaha. But only after Sarah had struck the rat first, and then Chester, both shaming him into the action. And afterwards…

_"You could have died, Bowie," his mother raged. "You could have died!" _

_"It wasn't my idea," he defended himself. _

_"I don't care whose idea it was! You're a smart boy, Bowie. It shouldn't just not be your idea; you should know not to do it! Jaha almost died! You even took a girl with you! Go to your room!" _

The stream of images wouldn't stop. There had been the first time he'd ever approached a girl. She hadn't just rebuffed him either, she had laughed at him. _Laughed_ at him. That had hurt. That had taken a long time to recover from. There had been the time he'd stolen the sword from home, to start his training, the disappointments he'd made his friends suffer, the disappointments he'd made Sir Astral suffer, the first time he'd ever met Kazin and what he had done then, the time he'd broken Chester's nose…

Through it all he could hear the demon grating, "There are no crimes when you are the only one left." But was that a repetition, or merely in his mind as well? And even more recently, the war against Zeon.

_"May I speak with you, Bowie?" _

_He gritted his teeth, but acceded to the request. "What can I do for you, Zellar?" _

_He and Colonel Zellar went back a long way, but they had never really been friends. Zellar was a small-minded, petty, jealous man, and Bowie always bristled when he addressed him in the familiar. _

_"This course you've been advocating…" Zellar studied him intently. _

_Bowie could well imagine what Zellar had to say about his plans. He always did what he was ordered, but the man had no qualms at scoffing even at the king's plans behind his back. "What of them," he asked, forcing himself to remain somewhat civil. _

_"You're forcing a battle we can't hope to win." _

That had stayed with Bowie for how long now… he didn't know. He had justified, rationalized, but now that he was at the apex of his plan, he knew Zellar was right. He couldn't win this battle. And yet… _There are no crimes if you are the only one left. _

"Dammit," Bowie swore feverishly. He pushed a hand through his hair, staring at the immobile demon before him. "Leave my mind alone!"

"You hear the truth." Galam smiled and it was a hideous sight to behold. "You see the wisdom of my words. You have dreams, king of nothing. The world-"

"-Bolt," howled Bowie. The sensation of burning energy swept through him as jagged streaks of electricity struck the possessed body of King Galam.

The demon jerked backwards in surprise, and Bowie sprinted forward, his sword swinging through the momentary opening in Galam's defenses. It was rewarded by a slash to his staff arm. Bowie grunted in surprise. The flesh he encountered felt hard, as though his blade was scraping ineffectually away at a piece of very brittle stone.

All around them, the mist twisted, thinned out. Suddenly the two of them were again on the plateau as the rain beat fiercely down on them, and sword and staff dueled for dominance.

"This whole time," Galam snarled, his voice taking on a more menacing quality. "Your swordsmanship is… impressive. And this scratch you've given me…" His voice thickened somehow, deepened. "But the devils _rise_, king of nothing."

Bowie gasped in a panic as the demon at long last took on the offensive. He could match the battering blows, barely. It took all his concentration to meet each one, and all his strength to hold onto his sword, and that was ignoring the occasional blow that Galam struck on his arms.

Cursing helplessly, Bowie slid in the muck, straight into a blow from Galam's staff. His head snapped back, and he fell face down in the mud, semi-stunned. He knew though that the old king would move in, determined to finish this bout now. In desperation, Bowie seized hold of the ankle in front of him, lifting his face out of the mud. He saw Galam slide, the blow missing him only slightly, but the king seemed to be righting himself…

He also saw that near the king's midsection, he looked scorched. The bolt spell _had _weakened the old man. If he could make use of that. Holding onto the king's ankle with his sword hand, grimly determined to keep the old man off-balance, Bowie's free hand scrabbled in the muck for his sword. He came up with a rock in hand, and, acting on instinct, threw it up.

The stone struck King Galam in the face, momentarily halting his attack. Bowie tugged on his ankle harder than ever, and the king fell into the muck, at a momentary, complete disadvantage. Blood trickled off of his face.

Bowie, seized his sword up, and came in hard, intending to end it. Galam opened his mouth, and some kind of energy poured out. Little points of pain crashed into Bowie, his whole body on fire with this unholy agony. He fell back, screaming at the sky as the rain poured down on his fevered skin. He had lost. He knew it. Granseal was over. _I should have joined him_, he realized numbly. _But truth is not negotiable. Not…_

Galam's gnarled hand seized him about the throat, lifting him as the king came to his own feet. The hand was hard, sharp. Bowie could barely breath through the grip. In the vortex of dark sky, pouring rain, mud, blood, and that strange twisted quality to his face, the king smiled demonically.

"And so it ends, king of nothing!"

Bowie's eyes stung with helpless tears. It had all been for nothing. There was no power strong enough to kill this man. Not this king. This king would never die. There was a roaring in his ears. It seemed that the air behind Galam was illuminating.

Abruptly, Galam turned his staff out… Bowie jerked forward helplessly, the point of his sword directed at that blackened area of Galam's body he had noted. Using all the strength that was left in him, he jerked the blade through the king as his demonic face started to turn back to Bowie.

A scream burst from Galam's lips. "My lord! My lord C-"

Bowie ripped the blade out, widening the wound. Galam fell to his knees, but his hand remained locked around Bowie's throat. A hysterical laugh built up in Bowie, but he had no more air or strength to lose it. _Still for nothing, this is the end for nothing…_ And even beyond that, he could still hear the old man whispering at him. _There are no crimes when you are the only one left. _

The world went black.


	2. Chapter 1: Farce

Chapter 1:

Farce

"I truly, sincerely, hate my life," Zellar muttered. _Life_. Now that was a bitter word, especially when he'd been so close to having one. Not merely a worthy one, but a splendid life, almost a bloody dream. "And now that dream's been taken from me, by a fucking amateur, no less."

He glared coldly at his audience: stones in the wall. He, a colonel, and reduced to this pathetic sentry duty. "The war is over," he informed the stones, "and you need not fear a breach. And even so, I am assigned to be a sentry."

It would have been better if he could see a point in being placed on such a duty in a time of peace. He had risen high and quickly, guarding the walls when there were no enemies to guard against was a waste of his talents. "And all my talents are being wasted, I fear."

It was, Zellar reflected bitterly, his own fault that he was placed in such a position. He had backed Bowie's plan, backed it to the hilt; he'd even added one or two of his own suggestions. That had earned him a command, come the time of battle, and Zellar had acquitted himself very well. But it had been Bowie who killed old Galam.

_And now that is the standard I shall be measured against; Bowie's plan didn't even include the ultimate most salient points of strategy, but everything I ever do will be measured against that anyhow. Everything I ever do. That bastard ruined my life! _

In the cold light of reason, Zellar knew that he'd had no other choice. Galam had had to be defeated and at the time, Granseal had been on the verge of collapse. Supporting Bowie had been about so much more when he'd made that decision, and Zellar knew that what small credit he'd be allowed to take, what he'd done with his division would insure that he would continue to rise high, under Bowie's graces anyway.

_But that wasn't what I wanted. _Of course, things had never been guaranteed to work out in the way that Zellar had calculated them, but he had calculated events very precisely. King Granseal was an old man, old, and with no male heir attached, only his daughter. Under the circumstances… well, it wouldn't have been too much to hope to have been married to Princess Elis, would it? Zellar was young enough, certainly, and his career in the military had been prestigious enough. Under those conditions, he had been eminently suitable. And the wench was very comely, as well.

Zellar's hands clenched. _And then Bowie came. And that was the end of that hope. Now the best I can hope for is to be a general, I suppose. If even that much. _

He took several deep, steadying breaths. He was, he supposed, being just slightly childish about the whole thing. _Pathetic would be the word for it. A favored toy has been taken from me, and now I'm calling out for mommy. _Zellar knew that he should be overjoyed, that he shouldn't have any earthly grudges at this moment in time. Granseal was saved, and Galam defeated. The bloody world was saved, for the Runic Shining Force had smashed Zeon and other powers of darkness. Thousands of lives had been saved, honor had been satisfied, doom had not fallen upon them. And yet even so… Bowie, and the war by extension, had taken everything he had ever cherished a possibility of attaining. How could he not hate the war?

_And even now, I have no chance to start recouping some of these losses if the rumors are true. Bowie and his honorable peace…_

He turned his scowl out toward the western horizon. If he wanted to begin salvaging something for himself, he might as well do his duty well, actually have something worth reporting. It was a minor beginning, but what else was he supposed to do? _Bowie may have made an ingrate of me, but he'll not make a fool of me too. I do my duties, honorably. _

It was a brutal day for sentry duty, there was no denying that. Zellar was roasting in his brightly polished plate armor. _And all this security really is excessive. Even if the Galamani chose to make a blood-feud with us, as any real men would do, they would hardly do it now, while they stand weak, defeated, poised to be crushed. _

Morbidly, he considered the meager possibilities that Bowie had left open to him. In Granseal he would always be overshadowed and outmatched by Bowie's legend, no matter what he did. Remaining in the military, he could probably rise high. But not high enough. Not high enough to warrant the notice of old King Granseal or his daughter. _Unless Bowie was to die…_

But that was not how a man lived. There was nothing worse a man could be than a traitor. It was the highest of crimes in all of Granseal. In the entire island. A traitor had no honor, he had no ties of kin, he had nothing. Luck had turned away from Zellar, permanently it seemed, but he would face that like a man. Bowie would not die at his instigation or at his hand, though Zellar could not deny that the thought was a very tempting one.

And there was nowhere else in the rest of the island he could go. The Galamani would doubtless hate any Granserian. Save, perhaps, a traitor to their cause, but Zellar had more than enough pride to be thoroughly disgusted at that possibility. The Yeeli would doubtless not yet forgive Granseal for having been allied with their blood enemies, the Galamani, for so many years. And in the scarcely populated northern regions of the island… _There is nothing for me there. And there's bloody nothing for me here. Bloody Bowie. Bloody war. Bloody life. _

And with all such options eliminated, that left the mainland. _West Parmecia. _Zellar had no true desire to abandon the island either though, and certainly not for West Parmecia. The mainlanders were weak-willed, weak-stomached, and thin-skinned. They had no true understanding of how a man should live his life. The only Parmecians to have even the slightest amount of spine were those of Thornwood, and even they…

"And once again, I'm forced to a circular conclusion. What's the point of staying? Where would I go if I didn't? Why did Bowie have to come?" That, indeed, was the question. Why had the gods inflicted Bowie on him? Why had the gods inflicted such a paragon as Bowie on him that he couldn't even possibly hope to compete against him? Bowie was uneducated but visionary, of low birth but articulate, unworldly but militarily precocious, and so charismatic that few could see how dangerous his proposals were. Honorable peace? With the _Galamani? _

_And now, with such victories under his belt, he'll doubtless be wed to the princess and become king himself. In my place._ How could Zellar not hate Bowie?

Zellar took a swift glance around the wall, and took his off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his brow. It was against regulations, but nobody else was here, so regulations be dammed. He had a duty to Granseal to serve in whatever fashion his superiors deemed necessary. Given the circumstances, given that Bowie was doubtless now an unofficial one of those superiors, Zellar did not feel obliged to roast to death.

"Such resentment may ill become me, but it seems to be all that I'm left with," he muttered, dropping his gaze back to the stones. _Stone._ That was what he was being, he knew, in regards to the outcome of the war. Despite everything, he should, he knew, feel more than mild relief at the outcome of the war. But he didn't. _Stone. Stone-faced, stone-voiced. Stone, he always said._ Stone was what his father had always advised him to be. Stone was what he'd spent a childhood trying to emulate. _That old bastard. It's not stone I need, it's steel. Bowie's proven he's not copper, but he's not proven to be steel yet. Coming in, showing up all my accomplishments… I must be steel not stone. _

It had stung more than Zellar would ever admit to see a nobody like Bowie rise to such heights. _To see him surpass me. _Zellar found few places in the world less desirable than his own memory. He had come from a long line of distinguished knights, and his father had mercilessly shaped him in that image. He had wanted Zellar to be even more perfect than all the rest. The only thing that cold old man had ever cared about was what others thought of the family honor. _He beat me bloody for falling off of that horse in front of his friends. He'd beat me bloody if he was still alive just because Bowie exists. _

He could hear his father's judgmental voice even now, even though the old man had been dead for years. _"Why can't you be more like Bowie?" _

Clenching his fists against the intrusive memory of that voice, Zellar reminded himself that he had defeated the old bastard. He had arrived. _At least I had until Bowie happened. Damn him! _

Zellar's attention was abruptly arrested by clouds of dust. He leaned forward, diverted from his pondering, peering hard out at the plains. A party of riders… was making for Granseal? But who would they be? Yeeli? Galamani?

_None of the other tribes have a reason to make their way here, except for Galamani. But they'd have to be mad to attack us at this point when we could easily smash them… This group isn't riding a sigil either. _Zellar cursed helplessly. This was worth reporting, but, gods be good, he wanted more information. If he could have a comprehensive report, a suggestion for how to proceed… No, it was not much, but it was the next logical step if he wanted any hopes of accruing honor.

At this distance… Zellar cursed again, deciding to take a gambit. There was a chance nothing would come of it, but even so… He held up his helmet, using it to flash the light of the sun in the direction of the party. Squinting harder than ever, the flashes did nothing to deliver to him more details.

Ah, but he could see now, a bolt of cloth, a sigil unfolding as he had hoped they might respond… _A few Gransi soldiers delayed out in the field?_ As the cloth unfolded stark against the sky, Zellar felt a chill pass through him. Riding towards the city was the unmistakable black crest and wheel of Galam.

---

Sarah stared vacantly out of the window. _Another day…_ Another day indeed. Another long boring day. There had been so many of them since the war had ended. _It hasn't been over so very long. _

She sighed, rising to her feet. It was uncharitable of her to think of the war like that, to be so selfish. It was just that… she bit her lip, trying to look at the situation as objectively as possible. She had found the war very fulfilling. Saving lives, healing wounds… she had found that work very satisfying, and much of it was gone now that they had actually won the war.

Was that what was wrong with her? Was she suffering the effects of wanderlust, the desire to be a mercenary or adventurer? Well, she couldn't deny that the notion had some appeal, but it wasn't exactly the adventure that she missed. _Bowie… _

It was Bowie, she decided. It had to be. She had never felt so close to him as she had when they had been battling side by side to save all of Granseal. She had never felt as alive as when they had ventured into West Parmecia for the sake of the Granseal, living by the sword.

It was a rather simple conclusion for the elven girl to come to. She had always loved Bowie, she knew that. They had all four grown up together, she, Bowie, Chester, Jaha… but it had always been Bowie that she had been drawn to, long before she had any conception of what that meant. _We were so close that day, together, in the rain. Jaha wanted to go exploring, and Bowie refused to go with him until he agreed to let me come along. I knew him so well…_

Bowie's transformation into a visionary leader hadn't surprised Sarah much, but she couldn't claim to be overjoyed with the results. It wasn't the war; it was what came with such a victory. Old King Granseal meant to make Bowie a lord or counselor now, all of the rumors said so, and Sarah saw no reason to disbelieve them. _It's just that now that this has happened he doesn't have any time for u…_ She bit her lip, chasing the stray thought away. It was true, in general Bowie had very little time or energy for his friends.

_And less even for 'us.' If there ever was an 'us.' I've always assumed, I've known him so well, so long, but Bowie could have just been kind to me. Kind to a friend that he loves and honors, but not beyond those bonds. _

And the rumors also suggested that that a lordship was merely the beginning. King Granseal wanted things to look proper, doubtless, so he would grant Bowie a significantly high position, but he was, in reality, grooming Bowie to be his heir. To become king of Granseal.

_And why wouldn't he,_ she thought with a flash of bitterness. To be king of Granseal and to have the power to make his dreams happen… to marry Princess Elis. Sarah bit her lip again. Elis was perfect. Why wouldn't Bowie want that?

With an angry toss of her head, Sarah stalked over to the mirror, studying herself critically. All she saw was an unassuming face with resentful maroon eyes. Her figure, of course, was not a match for the princess's. Nobody's was. _At least my hair is pretty_, she thought, trying to inject the observation with some self-deprecating humor.

_This is uncharitable of me anyway. Bowie may not accept. He may not even be King Granseal's choice. He may love Elis or me or somebody else. Why fixate on it? _

Of course, fixate on it was what she did. Bowie was perfect. So strong, and handsome and dreamy… Kind and generous as well. Sarah doubted she'd ever encounter a better person than Bowie.

A tap on the door distracted her from her ruminations. Absently putting a hand through her hair, she called out, "Yes?"

The door creaked open, and Slade stood there smiling apologetically. "My pardons for disturbing you, Lady Sarah."

_Slade. _She summoned a smile with as much fervor as she could. She had never liked the ratman. "'Lady' Sarah?"

Slade smirked at her for a moment. "But of course. The King insists on honoring all of Bowie's companions. Particularly the Granserian ones. And, when he is not offering positions or holdings, what does it cost him to make such a gesture? Even an empty title may sound impressive, Lady Sarah."

She chuckled politely. "Sarah still suits me fine."

"Ah. Of course." The ratman stood there in his loose fitting black tunic nodding and smiling.

_That's what I've never liked. It's as though he knows everything. Smirking and laughing at one like that…_ His eyes remained nearly expressionless. "You _did_ want something didn't you?"

His head bobbed up and down several more times. "Indeed. Jaha requires your aid. He's somehow managed to twist his ankle, though he wouldn't tell me how."

She sputtered on a bit of a laugh. "He's still getting into trouble like this? Gods, I wonder if his mother ever dropped him on his head, sometimes."

Slade only smiled slightly. "Sir Jaha is a wonder to us all."

_Does he think that makes him mysterious or interesting? Why can't he just say what he means? _"I'll be along in just a moment," she murmured, vaguely looking over her shoulder for her staff.

Slade opened his eyes very wide. "Indeed. Shall I… I'll just wait outside." He discreetly closed the door, though Sarah thought she heard the hint of a guffaw escape from the ratman.

She tossed her head in irritation. That was precisely why she had never cared for Slade, his cool, smug, sour manner made that impossible. He was humorous, she supposed, but that wasn't enough. In short order she found her staff (under the desk, how in the name of Volcannon did it come to be there?).

She paused for a moment in front of the mirror self-consciously smoothing her healer's robes about her before stepping out the door. Slade bowed to her, though the gesture was not deferential, and immediately took the liberty of taking her arm. Sarah gritted her teeth in annoyance as he started steering her down the staircase, but permitted the attention. _He is not as bad as all that and anyway, Bowie loves Slade dearly. _

"If you would permit me one small question, Lady Sarah?" Smiling, he quickly corrected himself. "Sarah, I mean."

"Obviously you've already opened your mouth to ask me," she said wearily. "Just say it, Slade."

He smiled ruefully, but refrained from apologizing again. From Slade, courtesy was nearly as overbearing as rudeness might be in another. "I confess, I wonder how you find…" he paused, obviously searching for the right word, "this?" He waved his free paw about vaguely.

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "'This?'"

"My apologies," he said quickly. "I merely mean to say, in the months following the freeing of Zeon, the Galam War, and the ascension of Bowie, much has changed for you and for all of us who fought under his banner. You went from being…" he coughed, "forgive me, but you went from being peasants to being honored persons, living in the court of Granseal. And so, I ask again: how do you find all of this?"

Sarah frowned, contemplating the question. "I don't know exactly. I guess… I mean, it doesn't seem like a stretch from following Bowie to being here. All of us who were raised in Granseal had dreams, I suppose, of eventually living here. Jaha, perhaps the most of all… He always wanted…" Sarah wavered for a moment, uncertain of what she really thought. For a moment or so there, she'd wanted nothing so much as to dodge the question; she'd suffered enough introspection during the days she'd spent alone in her luxurious new rooms. Slade was right, however; considering how this question affected the others was very interesting. "He always dreamed of this the most, I think. Jaha always wanted to rise here, to have recognition, to have…" She screwed up her face for a moment and finally admitted, "I don't know."

"Really," said Slade, and for once he sounded sincerely interested in what he was saying. "I had always thought that Bowie had the most dreams for the world, of all of you."

Sarah shook her head. "Different kinds of dreams. Bowie sees the way things should be and he wants to make that happen. Jaha…" she sighed as she considered her old dwarven friend. Jaha, she suspected, was invested in very little besides Jaha. But she would not say that to Slade. _I may be doing him a disservice as well. Who am I to judge? Pondering myself has lent me an air of cynicism, most like._

Slade was nodding, a thoughtful expression touching his lips. "Indeed. Sir Jaha has always seemed to have various resentments. Perhaps that is the answer."

Sarah considered answering that, but discarded the notion. What was she to say anyway? Briefly they descended the staircase and Slade hurried her along the dimly lit passage way to the ornate entrance of the courtyard. One of the guards there nodded deferentially in their direction as they passed. "Master Slade."

Sarah arched a querying eyebrow. "Master Slade? That seems rather a simple a title."

Slade smiled in a slightly exaggerated fashion. "Ah, well. That's just the sort of fellow I am. Simple."

Sarah snorted. She doubted that Slade had ever been simple, except possibly as a child. _He was probably one of those insufferably sly and devious children anyway. _

They came out into the sunlight, and in the middle of the courtyard stood Chester, Jaha and Sheela. Jaha was bent over, slightly, rubbing at his ankle his face flushed. Chester was saying, "You know, I still really don't understand how you could have twisted your ankle in such a place, my friend. The stonework here is hardly uneven and I would not believe of you that you wou-"

"Chester, please," moaned Jaha, straightening up. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"Well, if it makes you that uncomfortable, then there's no need to explain," Chester said graciously. "Unless it is important to some other matter of a non-personal nature? No? I thought not."

Sarah rolled her eyes. Chester had been polishing his ponderous gallantry as far back as she could remember. She turned to Slade who had politely relinquished her arm. "My help is needed here, how, exactly?"

Slade shrugged artlessly. "It would appear that Sir Jaha lacked the patience to wait for my return and purchased aid from another quarter."

"Sarah!" Jaha's boyish shout rang across the courtyard. "How did you find out? I mean, Sheela already got to it, but it's nice that you came."

Sarah glanced coolly at Slade. "Indeed." She walked over to the group of them. "I would be interested to know how exactly you managed to do this, myself."

She was vaguely aware of Slade drifting over in the background. Jaha flushed. "I uh… really can't explain. It might involve uh…" He shot an uneasy glance first at Sheela, then back at Sarah. "In the presence of women, it really doesn't bear repeating. I uh… may have precipitated the event by shouting some… vulgar… things."

Sheela laughed, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "I doubt you can have shouted anything that would shock anyone here, too much."

Jaha flushed more than ever. "Well, I must, ah… that, is, I have important a-affairs. My apologies." He scrambled hastily for the entrance. Sheela was still laughing. Sarah ignored her. She'd never cared overmuch for Sheela either. The woman was a healer like herself who had lost her fiancé in the war, and Sarah would certainly never question Sheela's courage. Nonetheless, the other woman irked her.

She turned away, meaning to throw a sharp inquiry or two at Slade. The ratman was no longer there. Sarah rolled her eyes again. "Imagine that."

---

Zellar came sharply through the door way, a crisp, "General" halfway out of his mouth before he choked it back at the scene that greeted him. Coughing for an awkward moment, he addressed himself to the man he had come to see, ignoring Bowie's pet mage. "General Mrell, sir. I have a report to make, if I'm not interrupting anything?"

Seated at a massive wooden desk in the gatehouse that did absolutely nothing to conceal his considerable girth, the general nodded ponderously several times. "Zellar, m'boy. Remarkable coincidence, truly remarkable, eh." He slapped the desk, laughing uneasily for a moment or so. He went on in a faux conversational tone: "I was about to send a runner for you, Colonel. Could you imagine that I would do that?"

"No, sir. Unless, perhaps," he suggested dryly, "you wanted me for something."

General Mrell coughed several times as though trying to make up his mind on whether to cough or guffaw. "Well, mmm… not exactly. Lord Kazin here has a message for you."

Zellar turned a cold eye on the golden-haired elf at last. Of nearly all of them, he hated Kazin the worst. The elf was one of the only one of Bowie's companions who didn't seem to be enamored of the man, and he followed him regardless. _If he can see that, and follows him anyway, rather than transferring his loyalty in a more… deserving direction… _"Indeed," Zellar said coldly. "What a happy coincidence. What is this need you have of me… Lord Kazin?" The title nearly caught in his throat.

The mage's long, handsome face remained expressionless. "The festivities are due to start in two days, as I'm sure you know, Colonel. His Grace, King Granseal IV of his name, and my Lord Bowie find it meet that, in light of your own impressive contributions to the war effort, you be given charge of some of the festivities. You're also invited to speak at the ball, of course, amidst some other details." From his rust-colored robes, the mage secreted a letter, and held it out to Zellar.

The soldier took it, silently hating Bowie all the more for making this entirely reasonable gesture. "Well, yes," he muttered, dropping his gaze from Kazin's penetrating green eyes. "Indeed. We're barely back from the war, and it would seem already that Lord Bowie has found errands for you to run."

There was a momentary silence, and Zellar looked up. A slow flush was spreading up Kazin's face; the jibe had caught him on the raw. Kazin jerked his head down tightly, not quite managing to nod. "Colonel," he said in an icy tone, and then stepped out of the gatehouse, ignoring General Mrell entirely.

Zellar frowned at the still unopened note in his hand for a moment or so, when a loud chuckle distracted his attention. "Heh, that was a good one, m'lad. Got Bowie's pet sorcerer, eh! Good man, good man."

Zellar hesitated for a moment, then decided to ignore the general's last few comments. "Sir, I had a report I personally wanted to make…"

"Eh? Well, well, indeed. Speak up, lad. What's on your mind?" Wiping his nose, General Mrell turned his watery blue eyes onto Zellar's face, apparently giving him his undivided attention.

Zellar considered the best way to make the report, and then decided that just to come right out would probably be best. "My lord general," he said formally, "approximately five minutes back, I spotted a party of Galamani apparently making their way here. I recommend immediate action-"

Mrell guffawed loudly. "Oh, there's nothing in that, no nothing at all, Colonel. It's a delegation. You know. Expected for the festivities." He winked broadly. "Another one of Bowie's errands, you might say." He laughed again. "Not that we're complaining, eh? All been authorized and whatnot." He winked twice more, in rapid succession. "Mayhap you're just the man to send to greet them, eh? As a matter of loyalty and whatnot." He laughed uproariously.

Zellar frowned, cautiously. There was clearly something here; the general's merriment was obviously feigned. A wave of distaste flowed through him as he studied the corpulent, white-haired old man. _Bloody Mrell…_ General Mrell had never been one of his father's greatest friends, but he had known the old man. That was reason enough to hate him. "My loyalty is to His Grace, our good king, of course."

"Eh?" General Mrell blinked several times. "Oh, yes… quite. As it happens, the uh, Galamani Delegation is already attended to. There's no need for… for you to uh…" He was staring at Zellar with obvious unease. "Hmm. Perhaps you ah…" He rustled busily around his desk for a moment, before coming up with a paper. "There's been a minor incident in the town. Some new fellow made a bit of a fight in a bar or something. Been locked up. You can look into it, eh?"

Zellar's eyebrows rose. This was… most curious. _And what is here, General? _Mrell was still watching him with poorly concealed anxiety. "Aye sir," he said quietly, absently pocketing Lord Kazin's note.

---

His eyes blearily cracked open. "Guhh…" an incoherent groan burst past his lips. His eyes swung frantically around the unfamiliar room. After all these times, all these countless times that he had woken up with no knowledge of where he was, he'd have thought he'd have gotten used to it by now.

But no. Each time it sent him into a familiar roiling panic and had, on no less than three separate occasions, to his great shame, driven him to tears. _Shouldn't drink so much…_

With another groan, he swung his legs off of a… cot, he realized in surprise. Well, that was something to be sure. He'd actually fallen asleep on something comfortable for once, rather than dirty alleys or abandoned fields.

_I'm in a cell_, he realized. Panic overtook him again. He had always been terrified of being kept in a cell and now he was in one… He stumbled to his feet. He had to get out. Nothing was as bad as this. Even being questioned by powerful men who might have executed him in a second if they had had the truest inkling of his crimes, even that was better than a cell.

He tripped over his own feet. Scrabbling back up, he ran at the bars of the cell. _Bars…_ he'd have to think. He'd have to remember some real magic. A blaze spell. A blaze spell would get him out. Metal would melt if it was hot enough. He hadn't cast any real magic in so long though… He inhaled deeply, trying to think, then groaned again, fell to his knees, and retched. "Guh…" he moaned, holding his sides. His tongue tasted vile.

_A hangover. It must be a hangover… I've been drinking. That's all I've been doing, since getting out alive. _

The truth of this did him little good, however. He contemplated getting up again, and nearly wept with frustration. But if he could get out of the cell…

"Well, you're certainly a pathetic looking wretch."

Startled, his eyes darted upward to meet the sharp voice. A rather plain-looking man stood before him, but sharp-voiced, sharp-eyed, and hard-mouthed. And he was wearing some kind of uniform, with a sword at his belt… _An interrogator_, he realized, in a desperate panic again.

He knew he wouldn't be able to hold out against whatever tortures this sharp-tongued man had in mind. He truly _was_ pathetic. A patched and faded robe, a weak chest, and his stubbled jaw sticky with his own puke just now… _I can't tell him anything. But he'll kill me. A lie. I need a good lie. I'm good at lying, I'm good a-_

"I warn you," the man said, sounding bored, "you've already been charged with breaking the peace and intention to assault. We can dispense with the formalities as you're a newcomer here, of course. It's not a vastly important charge. You were drunk, they tell me?"

He set his lips tightly. The man shook his head in disgust, "You were obviously drunk." He shrugged his shoulders. "Just give me a few answers, and we can just let you go. This time. A few blows here or there, it's an easy enough thing to happen."

He hesitated, afraid. This could be a trap... but the man seemed civilized enough. If only his memories of the last few days were better. If only he could remember whether or not Grans was a relatively orderly place…

"Gods," muttered the man. "Let's just start with your name then. Can you tell me your name?"

Summoning what little was left of his courage, he wetted his lips. "C…Cl…C…Cla…Clatt," he stammered.


	3. Chapter 2: Claims

Chapter 2:

Claims

Lord Paul Chelsted rose at dawn as was his wont and moved his bowels. After he had finished he went to the battlements as he always did to savor the morning. His hands worked over the familiar rough stones that had created this immense wall, this immense edifice. An impossible town to take was Galam.

Even in the dawn light, the vestiges of the comet could be seen, red in the sky. Redder than the pink dawn light that surrounded it. The Bleeding Star, it had already been named, but Lord Paul Chelsted knew better. _It is my comet_, he told himself, stretching luxuriously. _My comet, come to herald a new age. _

Here in the heart of the castle, Lord Paul Chelsted could rest assured on that promise to himself. Galam had over a thousand years worth of culture, of history, art, philosophy, and war. Galam was the cradle of culture, mayhaps, but all that had come before was meaningless. _It has all been to prepare for me_.

Lord Chelsted stared a moment longer at the Bleeding Star, so red and angry in the sky. He rubbed his small moustache nervously. He had labored so long and so hard for this opportunity, that he could scarce believe that it was finally upon him. The war was over and King Galam was dead. Zeon was also gone. Lord Chelsted had hoped devoutly for such an outcome, and now that it was there… _A strong man seizes the opportunity, and I am a strong man. _For Lord Paul Chelsted, there were fewer places in the world less welcome than his own memory, but he was duly grateful to his past nonetheless. A strong man grudged no advantage that was at hand.

Chelsted they had called him then, and other names less kind. All of those names had shared one thing in common; they had had the quality of a curse. Harsh eyes, harsher words… they had grudged him his name, and had hated him for it. His mouth tightened, just in the remembering. Inferior little mendicants.

Lord Paul Chelsted contemplated the Bleeding Star for one final moment, and then he turned, sweeping back down the stairs of Galam Castle, making his way to the rooms that the late and largely unlamented King Galam had set aside from him. _How unimaginative these dynasties are. Galam… what was it? Galam IX? The tactics of a dying family. _

He paused briefly at the door to his apartments, putting a hand through his hair. With a shrug, Lord Paul Chelsted unlatched the door and stepped in. His destiny was upon him and he would not squander it by pondering his former ruler.

"Lord Paul!" His personal aide, Ricketts, was surveying him anxiously. "You have been longer than usual this morning, my lord."

Chelsted made a dismissive gesture. "You chatter like an old woman, Ricketts. I merely wished to contemplate our comet." His eyes moved appreciatively to the table. "The breakfast has been laid out?"

"As you commanded, my lord." Chelsted smiled at the servile tone, seating himself. Any sort of man would take offense at being called an old woman, but Ricketts was a good man. A loyal man. Lord Paul had always thought him a stupid man as well, but the world was full of stupid men. Loyal ones were rarer, and loyalty was a trait that Lord Paul Chelsted rewarded generously.

He poured himself a glass of wine. "Have some breakfast, Ricketts."

Rather than seating himself, Ricketts hovered anxiously over the table. "The Green Baron has not sent the word we were expecting my lord." The older man's gnarled face revealed nothing but concern. Lord Paul Chelsted occasionally wondered what it must be like to be so small-minded, but he was duly grateful to the old soldier nonetheless. He could trust nobody as he trusted Ricketts.

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Has he sent word other than we were expecting?"

Ricketts's jowls quivered as he shook his head. "No, my lord. The Green Baron has not sent word of any kind."

Lord Chelsted took the mouthful of eggs, chewed and swallowed. "Meaningless, in that case. Lord Zocc doubtless hopes to see what I would do if this minor alteration came up. It is no more than a test, Ricketts. It changes nothing." He took a small, dignified sip of wine and said for the second time that morning, "Have some breakfast, Ricketts."

Jowls still quivering, Ricketts bowed deeply before seating himself. "Very good, my lord."

Lord Paul Chelsted smiled thinly, turning his immediate attention back to the laden table. He had commanded the servers to lay out a dozen eggs, some very good bread, and bacon, burnt till it was black. _Perhaps Ricketts asked after the bowl of fruit._ He savored the feel of eating the best of the food, savored the accompanying strength. _It is my comet, my hour, my time. _

As he buttered a piece of bread, Lord Paul's eyes drifted lazily over to a small stack of books. "Those are… it?"

Ricketts nodded, hurriedly setting down a goblet of wine. "Indeed, my lord. There was surprisingly little to be seeing to of the… the lineage in the first place, but it seemed to me on reflection that this may not have been a negative quality."

Ricketts's attempts to sound educated rarely failed to amuse Lord Paul, but this morn he had serious matters on his mind. "Less evidence… better, perhaps, but riskier. Had anyone been before you?"

"That would be impossible to say, my lord. Gretchel is a frightful woman, and I doubt she could be bribed to say."

"Paper thin," he muttered, staring at the slim stack of books. "This scheme of ours is as yet, paper thin, Ricketts. And yet, could any of the others make this claim with a straight face without more evidence? Could Kronos fight this?"

"Lord Kronos's claim is tenuous at best, my lord."

Lord Paul glanced sharply at his aide. "And is my claim any less tenuous? We are creating a fiction here, Ricketts. A fiction… for where other men have one name, I have two." An old custom, that. A left over custom from an older time. There were very few persons in the world left whose families stretched back so far and so clearly that they had two names. All the others hated him for that, to be sure, for it made him better. _Aye. And that inferiority, that unthinking deference to two names is half the deception._ He settled back into his chair, his feeling of invigoration abruptly leaving him. "And yet, why should the regency go to the man with the best _claim_? Why not the man best-suited for the role?" _Why not me? _

Lord Paul Chelsted knew it deep in the fathomless reaches of his soul; he was meant for the regency. He was a man like any other perhaps, but he was, he knew unblushingly, as close as to perfection that a man could come. His was to be a glorious destiny.

The only matter left was to seize his destiny. Lord Chelsted was a realistic man. Destiny would not just happen. The high lords would not merely hand him the power. And so, he had to calibrate his plans precisely to circumvent all of those fools who would stand in his way, and only because he saw that the only hope for survival was a break with the past.

He really did hate all of them, Lord Paul Chelsted reflected. All the bloody little people who made up the world… he hated the lot of them. Except for the select few. The very few for whom he had ever felt the slightest bit of affection… _And Nikki. _

He sighed deeply, closing his eyes, squeezing his hands into fists. He loved her so much. It was his one great weakness, the great flaw in his cleverness… and worst of all, he didn't really care. The one thing he wanted was to make sure that none of the others would ever know about it. At first anyway. _Gods, how Lord Zocc laughed… _

Lord Paul was dragged back to the present abruptly at the sound of Ricketts's voice. "Hmm?" He arched his brows enquiringly.

"General Tiberius has intimated that he means to call upon you this morning, my lord."

"A tedious man," Lord Paul muttered, lifting his goblet. _Still, if it means I may be certain of the man, I'll gladly receive him._ "Tell me, Ricketts," he said abruptly. "What would you do if the fate of all of Galam was in your hands? What course would you steer?"

Ricketts's brows knit together in a nearly comical helpless perplexity. "My lord, I…"

"We have been humbled in war, Ricketts! Those Gransi dogs defeated us and cast down our, king, oh yes! But never forget a slight, no matter how many generations it goes back. It has been centuries since the last full-scale war between Galam and Granseal. In that time, we have been fighting the Yeeli, surely we must not forget that long list of insults… and the other clans are sometimes our enemies too! How does one navigate that mire, Ricketts?"

Ricketts frowned, the lines of his wrinkled face deepening in thought. He lightly massaged his thumbs. Finally he said, "But you, yourself, my lord viewed the circumstances of Zeon's revival as a unique situation. Even the death of our king was not…" Ricketts swallowed hard, the tone of his voice dropping. "Not, undesirable."

He smacked the table. "What I think is unimportant, Ricketts. It is the insult that matters. To kill in vengeance… is this not the Granserian way?"

Ricketts blew out a soft puff of air as he considered the point. "Mayhaps… yes. It is. To kill in vengeance… and to kill the ones who attack in their own vengeance to defend the right to kill." Ricketts shrugged. "It has always been our way."

"And yet," suggested Lord Paul Chelsted, "there have been occasions in the past where we have foregone our vengeance. Not many, but a few. When we have been so ashamed of the behavior of our slain kin… And King Galam was possessed by a devil…"

Ricketts frowned thoughtfully. "I don't think," he said slowly, "I do not believe that many will grant credence to that argument, my lord."

Lord Paul Chelsted watched him closely. "But you would?"

"I would follow my lord. It's habit forming."

Lord Paul snorted. He dearly loved a bit of wit, and from Ricketts that was the height of cleverness. _I should not think ill of him. Ricketts has always been there, always loyal. A better father than Father ever could have hoped to be. _He selected a peach from the table, and bit into it. Juice trickled down his lips. "Life is short for vengeance, Ricketts. May not a generation serve just as well for that purpose?"

Ricketts frowned. "You mean to sue for peace?"

Lord Paul Chelsted took his time answering. If Ricketts would support him on this, it might not mean anything, but if even Ricketts would not, then he had no chance. "Peace is a very final word. I mean to sue for power." He smiled at the slow nod that Ricketts gave. "We need not fight a war we cannot win now. Peace indeed is what I desire… but not uncompromising peace."

Ricketts said slowly, "It seems to me that the best thing to do, mayhap… to rise up in friendship with Gransi so long as it takes to not be on our knees."

Lord Paul nodded. "Precisely." Ricketts didn't know the half of it. Lord Paul Chelsted had little use for the Granserian habit of fratricidal wars. He understood them; he had been raised to understand them. Even logic could not completely erase conditioning. There was a certain amount of the bloodthirsty Granserian in Lord Paul that yearned to protect his honor, to make only true and deeply emotional pledges. Yes, he understood that ruinous impulse. "But what good is it in a changing world"

Ricketts stared at him with watery eyes. "My lord?"

"Imagine me coquettishly raising my eyebrows," he offered quickly. "It is how we shall outmaneuver Lord Kronos."

Ricketts laughed. "Only you, my lord. Only you."

"I do my best," Lord Paul assured him, "to keep you amused." Lord Paul Chelsted turned his contemplations inward. The morning had, thus far, not gone badly, he thought. Ricketts had received the basic premise of Lord Paul's intentions fairly well. The unsettling factor, the one thing he couldn't be sure of was how much of Ricketts's acquiescence laid in his personal loyalty. To be sure, he was partly banking on Granserian honor. If he took the regency, then none in Galam would want to betray him; to do so would be unthinkable.

_Unless Ricketts is being influenced by personal loyalty, and they consider peace to be a scandalous, even treacherous suggestion. If they could call me traitor, they'd be all to willing to kill me, regent or no. Worse yet, they'd do it. _

The uncertainty was galling, but there was no help for it. Lord Paul would have to trust that he had the right people willing to back him, the right plan, and the right moment to act. _The gods sent that comet to herald my new age_, he reassured himself. There was nothing to be unduly worried about. Shrewd caution was still called for, but his schemes were progressing as expected.

_With my help, Galam can rise above its past. With my help, the riches of the mainland may finally fall on us, if I can bring stability to this cursed island… _Lord Paul Chelsted loved Granseal and he wanted to save it from itself.

Granserian honor and nobility were very charming concepts, but they were best left in an earlier age. What would be the fate of the island if they just kept up their bitter blood feuds, while all the rest of the world progressed, grew richer and more powerful? Sooner or later, eventually one of those powers would grow weary of the risk of Granserian violence infecting the mainland and would come and crush the island beneath its heel.

And that was the basic reason that Lord Paul felt justified in doing whatever it took to claim the regency. Granseal was in a perilous position, and if one thing did not finish it off, something else would. It would take a strong man to save the island now. Could Lord Kronos do it? Lord Paul thought not; Kronos was too short-sighted to look to the future, too selfish to believe in sacrifice, and too jealous to share the island with the Yeeli and the Gransi. Could even Lord Bowie of Granseal do it? _Not so long as the old king sits the throne, and that could be years. Besides which, Lord Bowie is apparently an honorable man. He doesn't truly understand the need to abandon such obscure reasoning. _Could Lord Zocc, the Green Baron, do it? That was equally doubtful. Lord Zocc was a singularly amusing individual to get drunk with, but he lacked the vision to save Granseal. And who did that leave? _There is only me. _

Lord Paul Chelsted sighed, stretching comfortably, thoroughly enjoying his sacrifice, his truly noble sacrifice. He was prepared to sacrifice nobility itself, for the greater good. Never had there been such a great man as Lord Paul Chelsted.

On the whole, he decided that he was in good spirits. Aside from one or two tangential concerns, things were going as well as he might have hoped. The next step was the delegation that Lord Bowie had asked them to send to Granseal. Whosoever headed that delegation would, for all practical intents and purposes seize the power even aside from being named regent. The regency had to be declared by two thirds of the lords at least, but the lords would follow whoever took the power into his hands.

Lord Paul Chelsted was prepared to lead the delegation himself, after concluding one or two other small matters. His was to be a glorious destiny. He sighed a sigh of pure contentment, considered pouring himself a second glass of wine or enjoying another excellent bit of bacon and bread, and rose to his feet instead.

He stalked over to the side table, leafing through the books that Ricketts had fetched him. He paused, studying one leather-bound tome. The title was dusty and largely faded, but the pages revealed that it was a genealogical text on Galam's royal family. "Ricketts," he called, "do you know how far back this book goes?"

Ricketts hurriedly rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and hobbled over to Lord Paul's side. Lord Paul arched a brow. "Limping, Ricketts?"

Ricketts flushed. "An… an accident, my lord. Of no consequence."

Lord Paul briefly considered answering that, insisting that any such inconvenience was of concern to him, but rejected the notion. This was _Ricketts_ he was speaking to, and Ricketts knew that. He knew he could always apply to Lord Paul, and Lord Paul supposed that if anyone in his service had a right to a few secrets, it was Ricketts.

Lord Paul searched his mind for some kindly comment to make, to steer them past this awkward silence, but realized with a jolt of surprise that he had no kindly comments in his repertoire. A curious oversight and one that would have to be corrected when he had the leisure to attend to it.

Ricketts in the meantime had already moved on. "Ah, yes, my lord. I selected this book very specially. Your eye is discerning to have noted it. This records nearly five hundred years of our kings, my lord. Back to the last period of Galam's ascendancy."

Lord Paul closed the book with a satisfied grunt. "Excellent work, Ricketts. Very discerning of you. This is precisely what we'll need." He turned away from books, contemplated the breakfast again, and walked over to his mirror, studying the man before him. "What do you think of this doublet, Ricketts? Appropriate, for the leader of the Galamani Delegation?"

Ricketts stood at the table, studying Lord Paul with pursed lips. "It is perhaps," he began disapprovingly, but then stopped. "My lord, I believe I have it." He hobbled quickly to Lord Paul's bedchamber, and returned momentarily with a black and gold vest. He helped Lord Paul into it, nodding much in the process. "This goes well with the doublet, my lord, and it gives you a more regal cast."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. "Considering that the royal colors of Galam are black and white, and this black and gold? Is that half a statement, Ricketts?"

"This is important, my lord," Ricketts scolded him. "You must look well for meeting with the Gransi, and the manner of this dressing will determine what they think of you and of Galam. The appearance gives you an air of legitimacy as well." Ricketts's jowls started quivering again. "Oh, to serve the Lord Regent," he breathed.

Lord Paul Chelsted felt a small hiccup of triumph rising in his chest. Even allowing that this was only Ricketts, he already thought that it was won. He already saw Lord Paul Chelsted as the Lord Regent of Galam. _It will be mine!_

Ricketts was muttering to himself, "Now a cloak of course…" He paused his rummaging for a moment, surveying Lord Paul with a critical eye. "Perhaps a small moustache would add something," he mused.

Lord Paul laughed again. "I hardly have the time to grow a moustache, Ricketts."

"Of course, my lord," he said distractedly. "Now about that cloak…"

As Ricketts continued rummaging around in the background, Lord Paul studied the reflection in front of him. He was not a handsome man, no, but his features were regular, pleasant enough to look upon. The grey eyes were too unprepossessing, however. He frowned, thoughtfully. No, he would never be a handsome man, or a hero. He did not possess that fiery Granserian temperament that lent itself to noble acts of heroism, and that was reflected in his features. Not a handsome man, no hero… But his were the features of Galam's future. It was not an entirely welcome thought.

A hard thumping sound came from the door. Without removing his eyes from their slightly morbid contemplation, he ordered, "Ricketts, see to that, would you?"

In only a few moments, he heard the door opening, and he turned, composed to put off whoever this was howsoever he must. Ricketts turned away from the door, bowing deeply. "My lord, General Tiberius."

Lord Paul Chelsted frowned. He could hardly put off Tiberius, but he had forgotten that the man was coming this morning. A tedious man, Lord Paul had always thought him. _But success requires tedious men on occasion_.

General Tiberius stood awkwardly in the door frame, a bulky, dark figure. General Tiberius was, alas, not a happy looking man. His neck and shoulders were always clenched, and his mouth was made of hard muscles that had never known how to smile. His dark brooding gaze was matched by dark curly hair.

"Lord Chelsted," he said heavily. "We have things to discuss."

"By all means, my dear general," Lord Paul responded. Considering what he needed Tiberius for, it was not, perhaps, the wisest of courses to condescend to him, but Lord Paul had never been able to prevent himself from the petty gesture. General Tiberius was the kind of man who invited such treatment.

Lord Paul gestured carelessly at the table. "Some breakfast, mayhaps?"

"My thanks, but no." Tiberius's eyes were worried. "Might we speak… privily, my lord?"

Lord Paul Chelsted opened his eyes very wide. "I have no secrets from Ricketts, General Tiberius. He is as much a part of these plans as you are."

General Tiberius snapped his mouth shut, grinding his teeth. He always ground his teeth when offended, and that was regrettably often. "Nonetheless," the general said in a gloomy, aggrieved voice, "there are some things not for the ears of aides."

Lord Paul sighed. "Very well. Ricketts, make yourself scarce. The general fears you mean to sell us out."

Ricketts bowed uncertainly, and edged out of the room. General Tiberius ground his teeth, but said nothing. "Well," asked Lord Paul, "what is so important that you must delay me this morning? Surely you could have approached me on the march."

"There are some things," Tiberius repeated, "not meant for the ears of aides… or others. I approach you now for this reason, my lord."

"Indeed," murmured Lord Paul Chelsted. "Perhaps I can offer an educated guess as to your worry. You grow concerned about backing me for the regency."

General Tiberius squirmed uncomfortably in place. "You mean to offer peace, my men tell me."

Lord Paul raised a brow. "Surely you mean Lord Zocc's men, my dear general. I seem to recall that you care not for spying."

Tiberius's face darkened. "Lord Zocc," he said slowly, "is another concern of mine. You put too much faith in that snake. He would be just as happy to see himself as regent. Or Lord Kronos."

Lord Paul shrugged. "You place too little faith in me, Tiberius. Lord Zocc would like nothing better than make himself regent, we agree. However, Lord Zocc is a poor third behind both myself and Lord Kronos. He knows that he must needs support one or the other of us. For the moment, he plays the double game, making both of us think that he is ours, whilst he makes up his mind. If something comes up to discredit both of us, his caution will have allowed him to take the position. If, on the other hand, he merely supports us loyally, he still wins. And he will see that supporting Lord Kronos is folly. Kronos has men, but you have more swords than he does, general. It will be swords that determine this." He paused. "So long as I have you."

General Tiberius ground his teeth, but Lord Paul Chelsted could see that that was merely a concession. He had calibrated that argument very precisely. Tiberius might indeed be feeling doubts, but he would never back out, knowing that then Lord Kronos would likely claim the regency. Tiberius hated Kronos, a general like himself, raised to the style of lord.

"Peace does not serve us," Tiberius said at last. "We have been slighted."

"I agree," said Lord Paul. "Kronos slights us to suggest that we're stupid enough to offer a battle that cannot be won."

"We cannot do nothing," Tiberius warned him. "My men will not support you if you do not meet this insult in the strongest possible terms. The Gransi must be punished."

"Lord Bowie is prepared to offer us much, in exchange for remembering that it was Zeon who dishonored us in the first place, General. We cannot fight Granseal now, and I am not of a mind to oblige your request. Apply to Kronos if you want needless war."

"This would come down to swords, you said. Do you want those swords to be directed against you?"

"Why would they be?" Lord Paul finally looked up into Tiberius's eyes. "Or are we too small-minded, too bitter to accept the truth for what it is? That is the only reason you would threaten me, Tiberius. Galam cannot survive a war like the last one, and we have an excuse not to offer such a battle. You are not betraying either your country or your principles in supporting me, if that's what concerns you. Indeed, you are serving your country more fully."

Tiberius ground his teeth, and turned his gaze away. Lord Paul was satisfied. If Tiberius was unwilling to look him in the eye, if, in other words, the logic was too strong for him, then Lord Paul had already won.

"The others will not be as easy to convince," Tiberius said at last.

"The others will be loath to betray their Lord Regent and an honest general. It is of no matter. The important affair is the Gransi offer. If we go along for that, now, then it is considerably likely we can make it seem as though we stood the Gransi down, intimidated them. It becomes our peace, not theirs and they become the cowards, not us."

General Tiberius let out an explosive sigh and took a seat. "Very well," he said, allowing himself to be reluctantly diverted. "As concerns all other things, I think that first we—"

The door banged open loudly and Ricketts came speeding through. Tiberius nearly jumped, "Bloody hell, man," he started to roar, but Ricketts breathlessly cut him off.

"My apologies, my lords, but… word… word from Lord Zocc. The Green Baron's word has finally come."

"Ah." Lord Paul smiled modestly. "His latest report on Lord Kronos, I should think. Be good enough to read it, Ricketts."

"My lord," said Ricketts anxiously, "that's just it. What is says. It…it…" Ricketts took a deep breath. "Lord Zocc says he regrets to inform you that he rode off with Lord Kronos and other lords of the delegation _last night!_"

Lord Paul chuckled. "What?" Then it hit him. "He said he's done _what_?!"

Tiberius shifted uncomfortably. "I did say my lor—"

Lord Paul Chelsted rose to his feet, waving his arms wildly, knocking over a vase. "You said! Dammit Tiberius. We can't claim to be able to rule Galam and not know that things like this are going on. You're making us look like goddamn motherfucking amateurs!"

"My lord," said Ricketts, rushing over, pushing him into a chair. "Calm down, my lord. Surely, surely things are not as dire as all this."

General Tiberius sat silently in his chair, grinding his teeth, his air more aggrieved than ever.

"There is a chance, I suppose," Lord Paul said slowly. "Kronos may have taken all, or the better part of his more fervent supporters with him to insure that the delegation proceeds exactly as he wishes. If that is the case… if this is so, we could press our claims now, so that Lord Kronos will return to an unsympathetic city at best. Though, he'll probably be honored for whatever he's done there!"

Lord Paul slammed his hand against the arm of his chair in frustration. "Clearly we must try anyway. Anything that lessens Lord Kronos's impact upon returning, that's what we want. Confirmed alliances if we can get them. Still," he added, "at least there's one good thing about all of this. Lord Zocc has clearly not entirely forsaken us, or he would not even have left that mockery of a note. Still playing both sides, it would seem…"

Tiberius stirred. "Lord Zocc has betrayed us." His tone was stiff with outrage, though whether it was directed at Lord Zocc, Lord Paul's verbal assault, or both, wasn't entirely clear.

"He has," Lord Paul agreed. "But he's also made it clear that he's the only one we can count on to betray Lord Kronos at all. He's made himself invaluable to both Kronos and I. We must take no action against him for the moment."

Lord Paul Chelsted wearily collapsed back into his chair. His head swam with black thoughts and blacker visions. _Played for a fool. They'll look on me and see nothing. Dammit, I'm better than this!_ But he had been played for a fool… A brief, humorless chuckle found its way past his lips. The day had begun with such promise, but now that he'd been outmaneuvered… _It's not too late, dammit. The regency will be mine if I have to kill Lord Kronos myself. _


	4. Chapter 3: Affairs of Granseal

Chapter 3:

Affairs of Granseal

If this was power, then power, Bowie decided tasted unaccountably like tedium. He sighed, refraining from asking for a cup of wine. He sighed, resisting the urge to crane his neck and look out of the open window, into the city of Granseal he had known all his life. He sighed, and admitted to himself that he was perhaps better suited to be a peasant than a lord of high power.

"… Therefore," the droning voice of Minister Graig announced, "our coffers are lower than we should have them, but are in remarkable shape, all things considering."

"Yes, yes," snapped the king. "We have more gold but not enough, you've said so before. Well, I say that we have enough dammit! The festivities continue."

"The cost," the minister began, but King Granseal gave him no time to make a further objection.

"Gods! Say what you will, but I'll have it done! Put your name to the royal command, or I'll find a minister who will!"

The wrinkled corners of the Graig's mouth tightened. "As you command, Your Grace." He bowed his bald head, lapsing into a reproachful silence.

As no one was saying anything, Bowie ignored them all for a moment. Gods, how good it would feel just to get back outside again! This business of ruling was mind-numbing, and he was not accustomed to sitting at a table for all the hours of the day. Even sitting in a cushioned seat all day was enough to get his ass raw and listening to all these people complaining just made his mind into mush.

What was worst, though, was Bowie knew this wasn't how it was supposed to be. If he was to do good by Grans he had to do it like this. And even more, these things they talked of, inventories, economic measures, reports, justice… these were the important things. The lives of people depended on what was said in these chambers. And he just couldn't care. They were so bloody boring.

_To do good by Grans…_ He could still remember that grating, twisted voice. _Seize the dream, he said…_ And even beyond that. _There are no crimes when you are the only one left._ Despite the heat of the day, Bowie shivered. He had been unable to rid himself of the memory of that duel, that duel he would have lost if not for Sir Astral and Kazin. The duel on which his claim to power was based. The duel he couldn't have won, except for the wildest stroke of luck. _I wept. He told me there were no crimes when you are the only one left, and I wept. _

Shame flooded the pit of Bowie's stomach, made his skin feel clammy. _Zellar was right, damn his petty jealous hide. I was setting up a battle that couldn't be won. But if I was the only one there, was it still a crime? _Like so many of the questions he'd asked himself recently, he couldn't answer it.

"Mayhaps," Bowie said abruptly, seeking escape from his oppressive thoughts- _weeper_- "we could use some refreshment on such a hot day."

King Granseal beamed at the suggestion, his face splotchy and red. "An excellent suggestion Lord Bowie. Wonderful, wonderful." He turned, snapping his fingers at nobody in particular. "Get us some iced wine in here."

Sir Astral smiled, his eyes blinking rapidly. "None for me, Your Grace. I fear that wine no longer agrees with my digestion."

King Granseal waved a vague hand in the court wizard's direction, otherwise ignoring him. "Now then," he announced, seemingly dismissing the matter of refreshment from his mind, "might we return to matters of some import?" He shot a brief glance at Minister Graig. Tugging on his thick white beard he barked, "What's the exact state of our forces, mmm, Mrell?"

The general exploded into a fit of coughing at the abrupt question. Recovering only slightly he hastened to say, "Hum, er, well… accounted for. Never been better!" He nodded earnestly. "That is, er, in um, absolute terms it's still somewhat… recovering if you take my meaning, Your Grace, but insofar as uh…" He coughed several more times, finally saying, "Absolutely."

Minister Graig looked up from the table, his lips still tight. "Yes. As concerns military affairs, I have several suggestions at this point."

Bowie resisted the need to cradle his head. Graig had been minister of Granseal for years, and nobody really liked him. Until joining these councils, Bowie had never really understood why. Graig was pompous and whiny at turns, and he hated any kind of criticism. _And he is the most important person in this room, next to His Grace. No wonder Granseal is in such bad shape._

"… A fleet," Graig was saying. "Strength at sea is most essential."

King Granseal looked bored. Sir Astral took up the question, as the king stared moodily at the table, picking his arm. "Surely we have all of the strength we need, minister. We control the harbor that leads most easily to West Parmecia."

"Yes we control it," Graig nearly spat, "but what do we _do_ with it? Nothing. The trade that comes in here is completely unrestricted! And there are rumors that the Runic may turn their attention in this direction… Cypress alone can most like muster a thousand ships!"

This turn in the discussion definitely caught Bowie's ear. "You're not suggesting restricted trade, surely?"

The minister started slightly. "Lord Bowie," he said, a sneer twisting his lips, "I would not expect you to be fully acquainted with all of the details of such a matter, and furthermore-"

"You could start by answering my question." Bowie made sure to keep his voice as neutral as he knew how to, it would not be well to make his dislike of Graig too clear. Bowie was still a newcomer to these meetings, and even if politics bored him stiff, he understood tactics. Until he was surer in his position, he could not risk enmity with a figure as powerful as Minister Graig.

The corners of Graig's mouth turned down. "Yes, restrictions would most like be part of the proposal."

Bowie nearly laughed. "Tell me minister, are you merely stupid or has keeping your head uncovered in the sun addled your brains? You might have a point if any amount of trade actually came through Grans… we barely receive a trickle of trade from the mainland, and what we do get is contraband from arms smugglers. We need to open our ports, not close them, increase trade, increase our wealth. That will do more for our security than any amount of empty ships."

The king guffawed loudly. "I think he has you there, eh Graig? What need have we of ships? If the mainlanders come here, we'll match them man for man and smash 'em!"

Graig's voice was stiff with outrage. "And what of the southerners and their vast armada? What of the fact that Galam's port, though less advantageously placed, is better armed than ours?"

"Mm," grunted the king, tugging on his beard. "There is a point at that. Mayhaps some warships would be prudent."

"I agree, Your Grace," Mrell piped up. "A most prudent measure. Yes! Prudent. The very word." He nodded several times, and echoed Graig's earlier sentiment. "Strength at sea is most essential." The general was an old ally of Graig's; there was nothing remarkable in his parroting.

Sir Astral frowned, stirring unhappily. "Your Grace, I must disagree with my colleagues in this. We have been warned several times that if we make any threatening gestures—"

King Granseal snorted dismissively, cutting the old wizard off. "If Thornwood had the guts to attack us, they'd have done it years ago."

"But if, as the minister says, we have such little coin, how are to build such ships without greater trade?"

"Gods!" The king swore loudly, slamming his hand against the table. "You and Bowie stand alone in this matter, Astral. I'll have it done and Galam's harbor no longer poses a threat."

_Yes, Your Grace,_ Bowie thought sourly. _That's something you can understand, isn't it? More war. _Bowie had found that his military accomplishments had assured him a seat on this counsel, but he held no love of war. He could scarcely say this though. This was Grans. This was the Granserian way itself he was challenging. He could hear their voices, echoing through his head, like the bursts of lightning he'd seen framing the face of mad old King Galam. _Weeper! Cravenly weeper! _

The door opened, and a server came in, bearing a tray with goblets and a flagon of iced wine. The man quietly set it on the smooth surface as King Granseal grunted energetically, and retreated.

"Your Grace," Bowie said quickly, rising, struggling to drive unnecessary memories from his mind- _there are no crimes when you are the only one left_- "I once asked you to trust me. I asked you to give me leave to do something radical; to sail to West Parmecia. To go on my knees to the thin-skinned mainlanders and ask them for help, fighting that mad twisted demon ruling in Galam." He clenched his fist, forgetting the goblet on the table that was for him, locking his eyes on his liege lord. He knew he could take this council session; he could turn it into something better than it was shaping out to be. He'd not ever truly spoken with King Granseal, nor had he had many superficial encounters with him either, for, after all, royalty did not generally associate with peasantry. But he knew the old man pretty well. He knew that if he was firm, if he stood his ground, King Granseal the fourth of his name would likely agree to support his measure. _He is not a patient man. _

"I asked you," Bowie said into the silence, "to trust me. I asked you to put your faith into your people, sire. I asked you to believe our army could hold out, that I could find allies on the mainland who would look beyond their narrow-minded conceptions of Granserian savages. I asked you for all of this, and you gave it to me. I brought back allies, friends. We fought Galam and we won. We have friends, Your Grace. _Friends._ We don't have to do this alone. I asked you to have faith in me, to believe even after that, that we should offer the Galamani a chance to acknowledge their own dishonor, to come to us in a delegation, to ask us to help them to their feet. I asked you for this because we had already done all an honorable man could do, and because the Galamani deserved the same chance. I have asked you to trust me before, and always done my best for you, Your Grace. And now I ask you to trust me. Use our friends. Open up trade agreements with the mainland. _Forego the building of a fleet._"

King Granseal scratched his chin, looking uncomfortable. "Well..." he croaked at last, "seeing as you feel so… so strongly, about it…"

_Not a patient man,_ he thought ruefully. _And he doesn't truly care, king or no. If he did, he would tell me to do it or be damned. _

General Mrell chuckled right over the king's stammering, sloshing his wine around his mouth. "Permit me to say, Lord Bowie, that I may know a little more of military affairs than even yourself, mmm? Just a smidgeon. And I can tell you, spending more on our security, to prevent the dominance of the Galamani's port…"

Bowie watched Minister Graig closely. He was far the cleverer of the two, and, his icy silences were much more menacing than Mrell's veiled insults and threats could ever be. "General Mrell," he said slowly, "makes an excellent point. And the Galamani, never forget, are our blood enemies now. To not respond to such an outrage…"

"We have responded," Bowie snapped. "We don't need to spend more to insure military dominance. Galam hasn't been stronger than Granseal for centuries. They had the power of the devils in their hands and they still failed to smash us. We are strong. The only _response_ merited by this current situation is one of mercy. The Galamani were dishonored by the devils. They deserve a chance to be let up off of their knees. Granseal is strong as it is. Meaningless gestures don't serve us."

Bowie's eyes bore into the green-robed, bald-headed, hateful old man in front of him for several moments. King Granseal coughed loudly, suddenly, turning his attention to his goblet, his demeanor sullen. "As you see fit, Lord Bowie."

Graig's mouth tightened so hard that the corners of his mouth whitened. But he made not a word of complaint. "You mentioned the Galamani Delegation, Lord Bowie. Mayhaps we would be best served turned our attention to such an important affair."

Bowie sighed and flung himself back into his chair. "They're to arrive today, are they not?"

Graig glared. "Yes, 'they' are. Whoever 'they' may be."

Bowie rubbed savagely at his eyes. They were watering in the heat- _Weeper!_ - and Graig was boring him. It was an old complaint. Surprisingly, Graig had agreed with him and Astral and supported the delegation in the first place, but he had only wanted it under certain conditions. "What would you have us do?" he asked wearily.

"Perhaps," Graig began in that way he reserved for going over old grievances, when the door opened again, and Slade stepped in, lightly, on the balls of his feet. Graig's mouth snapped shut. He rose, unnecessarily saying, "Let me extend our welcome to our…" his lips twisted. "Our Master of Spies."

Slade smiled. "You are kind, Lord Minister." He bowed briefly around the table. "My lords, Your Grace, I do have some small matters that may be of concern to you." The ratman slipped into a chair between Astral and Mrell, nodding and smiling. "The Yeeli seem to have chosen to ignore us entirely, an insult to be sure, but better than an attack, I think we can all agree. Of course, the largest portion of my network is focused in Galam itself. The struggle over the regency is a dominating issue there, and it would seem that Lord Paul Chelsted is up to something or other. Lord Kronos is the one we must needs concern ourselves with, however, for he is leading the delegation."

"Kronos," said Graig, a thoughtful expression replacing the disdain on his face. "That one is… well, shall we say that what I've heard of him is not encouraging. Lord Kronos has never lost a battle."

"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself, minister?" Bowie drawled. "He's not here to start one, and we're not here to give him an excuse."

Graig ignored him, instead shooting a sharp glance at Slade. "He brings no companions?"

"Alas, my dear minister, but I must answer you in the negative. The only one of the other Lords Declarant we must needs concern ourselves with is Lord Zocc, so-called the Green Baron. The others are all spineless sycophants, but my reports indicate that Lord Zocc has his own aims and his own mind."

A loud grunt from King Granseal interrupted the report. The old king had his chin propped up in one hand, clearly dozing off. Bowie felt a flash of embarrassment at his own impatience and boredom with these affairs. It was bad enough that he felt that way at all, but to see his sentiments so mirrored in his king… _And yet, his fellow monarch has been slain. He is the only titan remaining on Grans now. There are no crimes when you are the only one left._

Slade smiled again, though Bowie knew him well enough to see that it was not a true smile. "There is only one other report of any great import, I promise you, Your Grace. We may be facing risks of a reversal due to some turbulence in Thornwood recently, involving the de-"

King Granseal waved an impatient hand. "West Parmecia does not concern us."

Slade bowed his head slightly. "Of course, Your Grace." He turned back to rest of the council table. "I recommend that you send someone with a good deal of tact to escort Lord Kronos to the city. He will most like be abrasive, to better judge us."

Bowie leant forward. "Lord Kazin is already prepared to attend to the arrival, my lords. You will not need to trouble yourselves."

A lazy smile flitted past Slade's face. "How thoughtful of Lord Kazin."

Bowie ignored that. Slade knew that he'd already asked Kazin, he was likely just trying to nettle Graig. And while that was not perhaps wise, it was a sentiment that Bowie could understand very clearly.

General Mrell slammed his wine goblet onto the table, noisily wiping his mouth. "There are, hmm, no ah… reports of domestic crime of any sort?"

Slade bowed his head ironically. "Ah. Of course, General." He shrugged. "Nothing seemed important enough to mention, but if you wish a full report…"

"No, no." He sounded uncertain. "No, I think not. Devote more attention to it, perhaps. We don't want any trouble here at home."

"But…" Bowie cursed himself silently for opening his mouth before he had a measured objection.

"I agree with Lord Bowie," Minister Graig spoke into the momentary silence. "I cannot believe, Mrell, that you would be implying that our own citizens would be capable of such seditious and disgusting behavior. Master Slade's network must not be disturbed for such petty reasons."

Bowie's mouth snapped tight shut. _Dammit… they've played me._ The two knew him much better than he'd assumed. Graig knew that his argument in support of Bowie was pure sophistry, knew that Bowie knew it as well. And having just pulled his teeth on that subject… "I disagree, Minister Graig," he said, giving in as gracefully as he could. "A few more eyes out for trouble, particularly with such revelry coming up, could not do any long term damage."

"As you wish," Graig said snidely. His eyes were smiling just a little though.

Slade spread out his paws. "My lords, I shall do all in my power to accommodate your requests."

The king snorted, slapping himself a bit in the chin. "Is there anything else?"

"Ahm. One thing, Your Grace." Mrell scratched his moustache. "There have been some reports of bandits. And more rats in the south again. It shouldn't be too troublesome, but might we not send out a patrol to deal with this before it becomes bigger?" He picked up his goblet again, adding, "Should be good experience for some of our rawer recruits." He drank deep of the wine, his throat quivering. "Under a more experienced leader, say." He took another swallow. "Sir Jaha, say. Or mayhaps Sir Chester."

King Granseal grunted. "Do whatever you wan-"

"No," said Bowie, ignoring King Granseal. "Chester and Jaha both worked too hard for this day to just be sent out now. Why not Col…" He nearly bit his tongue, remembering at the last moment that he'd assigned Zellar some duties at the ball.

Mrell's watery blue eyes met Bowie's, unblinking. "We have all worked for this day, my lord. Are you suggesting that you could find a better leader for such a mission than either of those two?"

"Gerhalt then."

Mrell frowned. "I hardly think a Parmecian-"

"A Parmecian who helped saved this kingdom." Bowie shrugged. "He's got experience and is perfect for moving in this kind of terrain. He'll make plenty of your recruits." The more Bowie thought about it, the more splendid it seemed. Gerhalt wouldn't care particularly about missing the festivities anyway. The beastman's interests were in more simple, direct confrontations anyway, and this mission would be good for him.

"Very well," Mrell relented, though with bad grace. "It shall be as you say."

King Granseal rose. "Then we're finally done? Good. Graig, let me know when the preparations are complete." He left the room without further delay, and Mrell was only moments behind him. Graig stayed long enough to make some polite conversation with Slade before he too excused himself.

Astral leant back in his chair, frowning. "You handled much of that poorly," he told Bowie. "You could have kept your respect, and gotten much of your proposals accepted without insulting Graig."

Bowie sighed. He'd known Astral as long as he could remember and he was tired of the way that the old wizard could always see to the heart of things. "Graig's suggestions were contemptible. I'll not play the weakling to avoid hurting his feelings."

"Graig is… a complicated man. You give him too little credit. I've argued with him for years, and I've learned to listen carefully to all his suggestions, no matter what they sound like." The words fell almost like a silence. Astral shrugged, his stern expression melting. "As always, I'm reduced to being your teacher again. Have you met with Luke yet?"

"Oh dammit," Bowie muttered, putting a hand through his hair. "Bedoe… I forgot about that. I need to visit Rhode first. Can you see if he'd mind waiting 'till tomorrow, Astral?"

The wizard smiled sardonically. "And now it's being your errand boy." He chuckled briefly, rising. "But of course, Luke didn't nearly die. I'll see to it." The old man started towards the door. He paused momentarily. "Bowie my boy," he said softly. "I know you and I _do_ want you to be happy. Just don't lose yourself in the work, or the vision of what the work should be. Seize the moment." Then he too was gone.

Bowie sat there, stunned. _Seize the destiny; make the world what it should be… there are no crimes when you are the only one left._ He clenched his hands so hard that they went numb. Astral had said nearly the same thing as that twisted old demon, and yet the meaning had been almost entirely reversed… A sudden care-free feeling swept through Bowie. Galam's words meant nothing.

"My lord?"

He started lightly, coming back to himself. "I'm fine, Slade." He frowned as it occurred to him. "But perhaps you'd permit me to ask, why do you insist on referring to me as 'lord?' We're friends and always have been. There's no need for it."

The ratman sighed. "That is a long story, my lord, and not a very interesting one. Let me ask you, were you born to poverty?"

"Not quite poverty. Granseal has had enough to go around for a couple hundred years now. And anyway, for all his faults, King Granseal never turned any of his people away from his doors. The city and the people belong to him… and King Granseal likes things that belong to him."

"Then His Grace is a king in a thousand," Slade told him, "regardless of whatever other faults he may have. Most are not near as generous." He waved a paw briefly. "Suffice to say that I was born to crushing poverty and I decided long ago that one never gets anywhere if one doesn't learn how to speak. Syntax has power, my lord. As do courtesies."

"Interesting. I never really thought about it." Bowie lifted his goblet, and took a sip. The vintage wasn't especially good, but it was iced, and on a day as hot as this, that was a blessing. He could feel his tunic clinging to his chest. Shifting, he asked, "You did want something?"

Slade's face was very still, very focused. "Do not let it be said that I did not try to warn you, my lord. A storm is coming."

He frowned. "You mean to say that your spies have picked up some hints of a double game or something? In _Granseal_? Some kind of treason? It has to be something like that if you're warning me, but why not take your evidence to King Granseal?"

Slade shook his head. "Who knows how the king would react? Besides, my spies can only pick up information from wherever they're at, and only so much of that. Right now, Granseal is a beacon of converging interests, and that always heralds a clash of emotions, intentions…"

"Well, what do you mean? Some kind of conspiracy?"

"I tell you, I don't know. I don't know because I'm not supposed to. But I have my suspicions. Were you… didn't you listen to what was said in the conference today? There is something moving through this city, Bowie, and it will strike at anything. Of that much, I am certain."

Bowie slowly shook his head. "I don't believe that. Not even old Graig would turn traitor, Slade. And you yourself said you don't have anything concrete… and anyway, if you don't have solid information for me to act on, why are you warning me?"

"This is a two-fold warning my lord. Never let it be said that I didn't try to tell you. But I want you to know. If you won't act, my lord… then I will not stand in the way of this."

---

They rode slowly towards the towering, dusty gate. Their eyes were nervous, but no more. Kronos grunted in satisfaction. Looking at the walls, even he had to grudgingly admit that the Gransi had built solid defenses. He shook his head in disgust. The bastards had had the upper hand for too long and now to be on his knees… _And Lord Paul would keep us there, if he had his way. Worse than any Gransi, that scum. _

He kicked his heels into his horse, spurring it on to a short canter to the head of the column again, beside Lord Zocc. He leant down, clapping his hand onto Shaita's shoulder. The shaman's robe was raggedy as ever. "You're certain," he said in a cold voice, "that this will work?"

The old ratman nodded nervously. "My Lord Kronos, I assure you. I have the capability."

"Yes," Lord Zocc drawled from his other side. "But what exactly is it that you're capable of, I wonder?"

"Shut up," Kronos hissed. "They've seen us." He squinted up at the movement on the wall. He had not been mistaken. Standing there before them, framed in the sunlight, was an indecently good-looking elf. "A mage?" he muttered to Shaita, not that there was much doubt in his mind. The ratman gave one quavering nod.

"The Lords Declarant?" The elf's voice was smooth, educated.

"Aye," roared Kronos. "Aye. Lord Kronos of the Lords Declarant, if it please you."

The elf turned to the side briefly, clearly ordering the gate to be opened. As the sunlight framed his angular face and long blonde hair, Kronos realized who was dealing with. "It must be that one… bah, I can't remember the name. The one who defeated King Galam." He let out a speculative whisper. "Powerful mage."

"That won't be a problem, my lord," Shaita assured him. "Sir Astral is thrice as powerful as Kazin is."

"Obviously, you dolt. I wasn't talking about that. And Kazin, you say? Good. Form up."

Down in the streets, waiting for them, was a small party of soldiers headed by a centaur knight. The knight inclined his head. "I am Sir Eric," he announced. "This is for your protection, Lord Kronos."

Kronos started to smile and answer but Lord Zocc beat him to it. "Of course." The Green Baron grinned devilishly. "Are we dressed well enough for the party?" He laughed aloud at the look on Sir Eric's face. "Very well, lead on sir knight. We'll skip all of that and just get rippingly drunk."


	5. Chapter 4: Night Society

Chapter 4:

Night Society

"Bowie," Rhode grunted, hastily setting aside the drawing he was working on. He would tell Bowie soon, but not yet. Not too soon. After the idea had settled a little bit, once it was less formative…

"Rhode." Bowie smiled and took a seat. "How are you?"

"Crippled. But you already knew that."

Bowie met his gaze unflinchingly. "I know that you blame me for that, but I did do my best."

"Blame you?" Rhode muttered. "Well, yes, I do. But at the same time, I saw you Bowie. You leapt in there and fought Galam for minutes with incredible swordplay. You defeated a Devil Lord. What you did…" He shook his head. "It was incredible. You could have been faster, because I saw you coming at his back. So yes, I blame you for this." He gestured at the bedcover, aware that Bowie couldn't actually see his useless legs. "I blame you for it. But I don't hate you. I can't." The end of his monologue fell like silence. Even more than that though, it was what Bowie had unwittingly shown Rhode that he was so appreciative of. A battle like that of such proportions… historic. Truly historic. How could Rhode not love Bowie for showing him that?

Bowie stood. "I see," he said at last. "Well, I'm sorry about that. I know I could have… could have done better. But I tried my best." He paused. "And I did save you. I…" He swallowed hard.

Rhode fingered his bushy beard, uncomfortable. "Ahm. Forget I said it if you need to. Just habit, that sort of thing you know." He brightened, remembering a bit of news he hoped would cheer Bowie up. "It'll be part of my book too, you know. Rhode's History of the Demon Wars."

Bowie grinned. "'Wars?"'

"There's been the one in Rune," Rhode pointed out. "That makes it plural. With all these devils active, might be some going on in other parts of Parmecia. And then there was the destruction of Odegan. No evidence, I admit, but if there weren't devils at the bottom of that, I'd be very surprised. Yes," he went on, warming to his theme, "the Demon Wars as I call them are the perfect subject. You realize that it's arcane, socio-economic, and political? A perfect research subject! A fitting way to move on from my last book, which was a history of Western Parmecia. Nearly five hundred years worth of it too! That was unprecedented in the field until I wrote it."

Bowie laughed. "I hate to cut you off, but if this is all the case, then perhaps this is the best time to bring this up. Would you like to be Granseal's Royal Historian?"

"Royal…" Rhode's voice dropped off into a hoarse whisper. Grans, the envy of the academic world… One of the richest cultures in all of the world, and never before had a foreigner been offered a chance to research it. That hadn't stopped many from trying, but if they were actually giving him access… _Official_ access… Head spinning, Rhode managed to say, "Yes! I…" He bowed his head. Remarkably, he felt like weeping. He whispered, "Thank you my boy. This is a great gift."

Bowie smiled tiredly. "Don't get too excited. If you accept this post, you'll have to tie the rest of your life to Grans. It would be quite an insult for you to leave, after that."

Rhode made a vague gesture. "King Granseal is old enough that I'll outlive him. And anyway, even if I don't, this is Grans. This is a historian's dream." He settled back in bed, his head swimming with visions of the book he'd write, the acclaim he'd gather, the knowledge he could unearth!

Bowie fidgeted uncomfortably. "I have to go," he announced abruptly. "The tourney will be starting any time now and there's the feast tonight and…" He coughed, twisting his hands. "You should come Rhode. A litter could take you. You should be there. You fought for Granseal. You're… well, you're a hero. You almost died fighting King Galam."

The historian's good humor evaporated at that. _Vain man. And this post, it's just compensating me for almost dying…_ He sighed loudly. _That's unfair of me. Bowie legitimately cares about the people he calls friend, and what else is he to do? _"So did you," he told Bowie.

Bowie's mouth quirked. "I'll see you later," he said. His voice was flat, but his eyes, honest and blue, were full of hurt as he backed from the room.

Rhode sat there a while longer and sighed. He ought not to have said anything. Absently tugging at his beard, he picked up the drawing again, studying it. He sighed again and set it back down. He could think about restoring mobility of sorts to himself later. Rhode picked up a second piece of a parchment, an empty one this time, and his quill. He sat there, thinking for a moment, and then started to put the words to paper. _Upon his triumphant return to the city of Granseal, Lord Bowie…_

---

The day was beautiful, breezy and clear. A perfect day for the tourney, and if only she could forget, it would have been one of the most perfect days in Sarah's life. But of course she couldn't. Sarah had never seen such a splendid event, and her role under Bowie in the war insured that she was seated with the nobility now. And so, she kept stealing glances Princess Elis.

Jealousy was unbecoming and a waste of energy. Sarah knew that, but Elis was so _perfect_. Exquisitely shaped, richly dressed, artfully styled… The only thing that Sarah was grateful for was that Bowie at least was not in the stands. On the other hand, his participation in the tourney doubtless meant that he would take the reward from Elis's scented hands. Assuming he won. Which he would of course. Bowie always won. Even though he had only recently joined the king's council, he had fought in the tourneys for years, and he had started winning regularly about three years ago.

"Ha!" Lord Zocc leaned over, touching her arm. "Your knights put on a splendid display, my lady. This is twice as good as th-" A roar went up, cutting off the rest of Green Baron's words.

Sarah looked back out at the field, and gasped. Jaha was lying sprawled out on the ground. She nearly rose, but then remembered that there were healers already assigned to aid injured combatants. It felt strange though, watching Jaha, whom she'd known all her life, being carried off of the field to be healed by somebody else.

Lord Zocc laughed. "I seem to have lost my bet." His eyes were shining, sparkling with good humored sincerity. Sarah abruptly shifted in her seat, slightly away from this charming lord of the Galamani Delegation.

_We must hope that power never falls to this one, clever as he is. Very nearly as charismatic as Bowie too. If Galam were ever in his hands…_

She forced a smile, stealing another glance at the fields. Sir Eric would receive his reward from Elis, and then the final joust would begin. Perhaps if Bowie saw her in the stands… _But I'll always just be next to Elis. _Her lips twisted as all other concerns melted from her. _I should just tell him how I feel. _

There was a slight rustling sound to her left, and she looked back over. Kazin had risen and was saying loudly, "…some refreshment I think. May I bring you gentlemen anything?"

Lord Zocc laughed again. "I fear not, my dear Lord Kazin. I have sworn not to get drunk until the ball, and without that risk, where is the joy in the drinking?"

A small, nearly melancholy, smile played across Kazin's lips. "Of course. Anyone else? Lord Kronos?"

He took a few steps further, his gaze taking in Sarah. "Can I get anything for you?"

She frowned at him. "But you'll miss at least the beginning of the match!"

"I intend to," Kazin muttered, seemingly more so to himself than to her. He shook his head. "And anyway, I'll still be able to catch most of it certainly, probably all of it. Nothing?" His voice sounded tight.

"No, thank you." He started away, and, on a sudden impulse Sarah called after him, "Mayhaps we can talk tonight?"

His cheek twitched. "Why not?" He quickly made his way out of the stands. Sarah watched him go, momentarily distracted from her maudlin ponderings. She'd always been fond of Kazin, but even she had to admit that his abrupt departure, his whole manner, was a little odd.

_Mayhaps being host to the Delegation is just wearying work. It would be, to show every courtesy to the Galamani… It has to be something like that. Kazin's always had superb patience. _

Her attention snapped back to the field of battle as the final two combatants made their way to the stands, each mounted on a horse. Minister Graig stood to announce the two men as was his duty. His thin voice rose. "Your Grace, I present to you the two who have come to risk themselves for the honor of the royal ruby. Lord Bowie of Granseal and Colonel Zellar of the same."

King Granseal nodded ponderously several times. "Well, do your best gentlemen and we'll see who the victor is this year, eh?"

"I don't think there's any doubt about that, Your Grace," said Bowie.

There was general laughter in the stands at the comment, and Zellar's face twitched. For just a moment Sarah pitied him. But then she was swept up in the event again, and had only eyes for Bowie. His face was alive, full of laughter and the sun shone on his hair. Her breath caught in her throat.

King Granseal shrugged his enormous shoulders. "Well, mayhaps the ruby will go to you at last, Zellar. We'll see." He waved his hand vaguely signaling the two men to their places, at the respective ends of the field.

As Zellar trotted his horse over to the far side, he called out confidently, "You'll see, Your Grace. I have him this year."

"Why, Zellar?" Bowie called after him. "Have you been practicing this year?"

The crowd loved that, but Sarah was no longer paying attention to the banter. She was watching Bowie avidly, completely unaware of Lord Zocc to her side. _Don't let him be hurt,_ she begged silently.

She started as she heard a familiar voice nearby. "I never know whether to be amused or insulted by this display," Chester was saying lightly. He nodded grandly in the direction of the contestants as Bowie and Zellar both raised their lances. "You must admit, they're going to great pains to act centaur."

"Chester!" She smiled at him. "You weren't in the lists this year."

"I gladly ceded my spot to Sir Eric. He is a noble man, and deserved the chance to prove his skills. The one year makes little difference. Besides, had I enlisted this year, you would have had no company in the stands."

She'd already turned back. "I had Kazin," she replied absently, forgetting that he should probably have been back by now. "Be quiet. The tilt's starting."

A collective, hushed silence had fallen in the stands, the same way it always did. The two men steadied themselves on their horses, and then galloped toward each other. Sarah clenched her robe in both hands.

Both lances met their targets, but neither man fell. That was normal, of course. For the last three years (although this was a much grander event on the whole) Bowie and Zellar had always fought each other for the championship. For the last three years, Bowie always won. But not without Zellar putting up a respectable challenge.

Reeling slightly in his saddle, Zellar retook his position, even as Bowie began the next charge, fractionally ahead of his opponent. Zellar came forward to meet Bowie's charge, and his lance nearly sent Bowie spinning.

Sarah gasped, and vaguely heard Chester talking with Lord Zocc in the background. "I have never seen the colonel show a better arm, or aim for that matter, than that last tilt, milord. You are truly privileged to witness it."

Louder than that, however, was Zellar's triumphant laughter. "I have you this year!"

Bowie shook his head determinedly, steadied himself, and set off again for the third pass. Zellar confidently leant forward, his lance still aimed better than Sarah had ever seen it. At the last moment Bowie simultaneously shifted slightly in his saddle, and dipped his lance just slightly down and to the left. Zellar's lance struck just on the edge of Bowie's, scraping ineffectually away, even as Bowie brought his own lance up as hard as he could. The blow struck true and Zellar crashed to the ground.

"No!" Zellar struggled to get up, simultaneously shouting, "Sword!"

Bowie laughed. "Come off it, man. You've already lost."

"Sword!" Zellar nearly regained his feet, only for Bowie to come forward, jabbing playfully down with his lance. Zellar fell back to the ground, scrambling away from Bowie's horse and lance, both of them keeping him from surging back up.

The stands roared with shouts and laughter. Over it all, the droning voice of Minister Graig announced the closure of the tourney. Sarah leant forward eagerly. Bowie and Zellar were nearly at the stands. If she could just catch Bowie's eye before he accepted the ruby of victory…

Bowie laughed again, and offered a hand down to his fallen opponent. "Are you alright?"

Zellar recoiled from it, scrambling further away than ever. "Get away from me!" The colonel staggered to his feet and tore off his helmet, his face contorted as he stared at Bowie. After another moment though, the expression was one replaced with a twisted smile.

The two men approached the stands, still surrounded by the screams and applause. Graig, having by now retaken his seat, leaned over and said loudly, "Well done, gentlemen. This year, you are both truly worthy."

King Granseal guffawed. "Truly worthy! Eh, but still not enough balance Zellar! Knocked right off your horse."

Princess Elis rapidly rose to her feet, interrupting the stream of her sire's words. "Valiant knights," she pronounced, favoring Zellar with a brief glance and Bowie with a smile, "you have done us honor this day." She turned her full attention on Zellar. "As befits the warrior of only second stature in our ranks, you may kiss my hand." She held it out, that absurdly pale and dainty appendage, and yet so elegant. Sarah couldn't remember how many times she'd wished she had hands half as lovely as Elis's.

Zellar's strange smile twisted again and he stepped forward quickly, lowering his mouth to her hand and then backing off. He'd accepted the kiss for the last three years, of course, and Sarah supposed that it would have lost much of its appeal over time.

Elis turned a dazzling smile on Bowie. "And to the victor goes the ruby," she declared, leaning towards Bowie ever so slightly. Bowie smiled politely back at her, taking the ruby from her hand. Elis settled back in her seat.

Sarah sighed. It should be enough for her that Bowie had won, that Bowie was happy. It should be enough for her that the war had ended, that nearly all her friends were still alive. She could not deny that it wasn't.

---

_Another three days of this, and I may throttle somebody,_ Kazin reflected. _Zellar, perhaps. Or Kronos._ He could think of no more pleasing a prospect other than the obvious. He glanced down the table, at Sarah. He found himself doing that far more often than he liked.

_Bloody hell, this would be amusing if I was not myself. _"I recommend the gamis, Lord Kronos." He gestured to the dish, mixed peppers and meat. "It's very good."

The lord of the Galamani Delegation took the comment as a slight. "We have gamis in Galam." He omitted Kazin's title, though that suited the mage just fine. He found the sudden nobility to be more than a little ostentatious, and he'd talked to people for years without one perfectly well. Kazin was far more insulted by Kronos's openly belligerent air. He sighed, pouring himself another cup of wine. _What can I have expected? The Galamani may have accepted peace, but it's only for lack of viable options. Need they have sent someone as asinine as Kronos, however? At least I suppose Lord Zocc makes up for his manner somewhat. _

The Green Baron, in the meanwhile, laughed aloud. "Peppers do not fare well with Lord Kronos's digestion, I fear. A tragedy."

The cold-eyed head of the Galamani shot a quick glance at Zocc, who returned it with an amiable smile. Kazin stifled a groan. _Bloody lovely. As if we need tension between these two. Which one is really in control anyway?_ He glanced at Sarah, and then, hoping to diffuse some of the antagonism about the table, directed his words to a pale-faced young nobleman.

"Lord Darell." He inclined his head briefly. "As I recall, your family traditionally has some sway over the port of Galam, does it not?"

The young, and insignificant if truth be told, lord started in his seat. He started to stammer a reply, but Lord Kronos talked straight over him. "You're quite well-informed." His voice had taken on a bullying quality.

_Gods, does the man _want_ to make a scene? Bloody fool. _He said as mildly as possible, "I like to know what I'm talking about. Would you like some more wine, my lord?"

Kronos stiffened. "I am quite capable of seeing to my own needs, Lord Kazin."

Kazin gave up. There was no point in trying to remain civil to a man like Kronos. He turned his attention in yet another direction. "I have to confess, I find myself intrigued by you, Master Shaita."

Kronos's pet ratman met his gaze uncertainly. "I… indeed?"

"Shamanry is such an unknown field." Kazin finished his wine, and poured himself another cup. "It's scarcely mentioned in any of the texts that I've studied. I didn't even know that there were any shamans in Grans. As I say, I find it intriguing."

Shaita licked his lips. "You are a… a mage, are you not?"

Kazin frowned. The ratman simply seemed out of place to him. His unease was more palpable than the occasion would have demanded. Although it could just be social unease. In his ragged clothing, in his subservient manner, Shaita was clearly very much not the sort of man one would expect to find at a royal ball.

"I've also studied sorcery."

"As has Shaita," Kronos snapped, jutting his chin forward. "I'm certain that any education would be quite one-sided."

Fortunately Kazin was spared the necessity of making a reply as the music started playing. The sounds of various instruments washing over him, Kazin almost relaxed for a moment. "If you wish, Lord Kronos, you may dance."

Kronos gaped at him. "I? I, dance?"

Lord Zocc laughed loudly. "Why not, Kronos? The Galamani are surely a match for whatever sort of dancing our Granserian friend here has in mind."

Kronos sputtered for a moment, shooting another one of those sharp glances at his compatriot. "I… of course, but what…?"

The Green Baron shrugged, adding casually, "Of course, if nobody wants to mingle, why should we press that on them?"

Kronos swallowed. "Of course, any who wish to… do so may… I believe. A dance may do me good." He rose hastily and stalked out onto the floor.

Kazin smiled. "You have a cruel tongue, my lord. You've set a wolf amongst the noble ladies of our court."

Zocc laughed long and loud. "You misjudge me, Lord Kazin. It was solely for Lord Kronos's sake that I spoke at all. Our dear Lord Kronos does have a habit of getting wound up. A conquest will be good therapy for him."

Kazin chuckled. "Your words fail to convince, Lord Zocc." He rose, finished his drink, and poured himself another. "I have other duties to attend to," he apologized. "I pray that you will understand."

Zocc shook his head amiably. "It's no matter to me, Lord Kazin. I'll drink to it." And so he did.

Kazin glanced over at Shaita who remained in the same seat looking more uncomfortable than ever. "We shall have to finish our talk some other time, Master Shaita. I should find it most interesting."

The ratman's mouth opened, but nothing came out for a moment. Just as Kazin started to turn away, he called out, "We shall, my lord, we shall. I'll be certain of it."

Kazin arched a brow at that, but nodded politely before making his way towards the doors. He wanted to take some air, wanted to think things over. The tourney today had only confirmed what he'd suspected long ago; that Sarah was deeply, irrevocably in love with Bowie. _As if that needed confirmation. It's been obvious for as long as I've known them. No, the only wonder there is that Bowie doesn't seem to no-_

"Kazin!" Sarah's hand pressed itself to his arm. "You promised we'd talk," she said, smiling at him.

"Oh." He put a hand through his hair to conceal how sweaty his palm had just become. "How thoughtless of me. I fear that with Lord Kronos to entertain, I must have forgotten." The lie sounded genuine to him, at least. _Where in Volcanon's name did she come from?_

"Oh, I uh…" Sarah looked at the ground, her voice diminished. "I suppose that that would be kind of consuming, huh?"

"Bowie honors me," Kazin said, struggling to keep the sour note from his voice.

"He's dancing with Elis." Sarah sighed, and tugged Kazin's arm a bit closer to her. The mage found himself in something of a predicament with that. Did it mean he should allow her to pull him another half-step in or…?

"Its good image, I suppose," he said, wishing he could escape this. _Things would be so much easier if Bowie wasn't my friend. _Oh, it was true that Kazin resented Bowie, but that was only natural. _And anyway, Bowie isn't the problem. He never was. _Far more than any of the others, or so Kazin judged, he saw Bowie's flaws. Bowie had any number of good points, of course, and that was partially why Kazin resented him. _Bloody hell, I wish I was him. Who wouldn't? If there's any one single thing wrong with Bowie, it's the fact that nothing is wrong with him. Though things are of course. But perception…_

Sarah sniffed slightly, and looked up at him, though she was only slightly shorter than Kazin himself. "You don't have to say that, Kazin."

_Don't I? What else, pray, should I say? 'Oh, I'm sorry Sarah, while you're deciding whether or not to be heartbroken, but I harbor some interest in you myself?' _ "She might have made the first gesture."

Sarah blew out a puff of air. "I'm being morbid, anyway." She smiled at him again. "Do you want t-"

"Sarah!" The boyish shout was the same as ever. Kazin stifled a groan as Jaha stumped towards them. "Oh, Kazin." He added a perfunctory nod to the end of the statement, and then immediately turned back to Sarah.

_Of course he would. None of the others see me as quite a real man, simply because I wasn't born in Granseal. And that humiliating little exercise Bowie just had to put me through when they first came to me for help… _

"… Was really disappointed earlier. I thought that I might have…" Jaha's voice broke off, and he looked longingly towards the dancers. "And then I lost." He shook his head. "Oh well, luck's luck, right?"

Kazin's arm was beginning to get numb. Sarah hadn't relinquished her grip on it, nor had she deigned to notice him since Jaha had engaged her. _Not that she bloody well would. Their little group is so tightly wound together I couldn't get a fingernail between them. _He nursed his resentment with the wine in his other hand, and with silence.

Jaha shrugged, though he still looked rather disappointed. "So, hey, want to dance?"

Sarah laughed. "It might be a little hard, Jaha."

The dwarf grinned. "I'll have you know I'm twice the dancer one of your clumsy elves would be…" The grin slid off his face. "Uh… sorry Kazin."

Kazin took the opportunity to detach himself from Sarah's grip. "Not at all," he said coldly. "I confess, my skills for dancing are quite limited." He glanced at Sarah again, and said, "You should have fun anyway. I'm sure that it'll be an excellent experiment." He bowed his head. "If you'll both just excuse me then…"

"Sure. Oh!" Jaha called over his shoulder, "I think Slade was looking for you earlier, by the way."

Kazin nodded again. "Thanks." He trudged off towards an inconspicuous looking wall thinking, _dammit, what was the point of that? So alright, it wasn't a good time for me or for her, but why should I care one way or the other? And it's hardly Jaha's fault that I didn't grow up with him. _

"Kazin!"

_Again? Bloody hell. _Forcing a smile, Kazin turned. "Oh. Luke."

The prince of Bedoe indicated a seat. "If you'd sit with me?"

Kazin forced a laugh. "Why not? You have the wine."

Luke, the birdman prince of Bedoe, turned a sharp eye on Kazin. "Is this a bad time?"

"Now what on earth could make you think that," Kazin drawled. "We won the war, didn't we?"

"Bad times are the only ones I've gotten over the last several days," Luke responded. He added, "You might want to go easy on the wine, Kazin."

Kazin shrugged. "Whatever you say." It was good advice anyway, though Kazin was reluctant to admit that. He was a little drunk and very tired.

Luke spread one wing. "I'm sorry I stopped you, it's just that…" The birdman, dressed very richly for the event, even wearing his small crown, fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, Bowie trusts you. He listens to you."

"I am hardly the only one to hold that distinction. Shocking though it may seem, you apply to both of those as well."

"Kazin, be serious for a moment. Bowie's hardly met with me at all about the treaty with Bedoe, and King Granseal won't even talk to me."

Kazin sighed. People had a habit of spilling their confidences on him, and he didn't know why. _It can hardly be because they think I don't judge people, I do. Perhaps logic does have some appeal to people after all. Dammed inconvenient habit, though. _And frankly, Kazin was getting quite tired of it tonight. "Alright. I'll mention it to him."

Luke nodded his eyes keen. "Thank you." He hesitated a moment. "Do you… you don't seem to be enjoying yourself much."

"You try to entertain Lord Kronos for three bloody days."

Luke smiled. "Good point. I'd forgotten about that."

"Because you can afford to," Kazin agreed sourly.

"Gentlemen, might I join you?" Stepping out, seemingly from nowhere, Slade descended on them, nodding and smiling as was his wont.

Kazin sighed. "Jaha tells me you've been wanting to see me."

Slade's expression sharpened slightly. "Indeed. Tell me, Lord Kazin, do you see that grey-robed mage standing over there?" His paw was pointed halfway across the room, near King Granseal's dais.

Kazin frowned. "Aye… mage you say? I do feel his power." He shrugged. "What of it? Why are we watching him? Who is he anyway?" _Better than contemplating Sarah, I suppose. This is no good anyway. I'm sobering up. _

Slade smiled. "That is precisely what I want you to find out."

---

There were few things in life more pleasant than wine, or so it seemed to Zellar now. The insult implicit in the Galamani's presence seemed lessened somehow, and even the sting of losing the tourney was rather lessened. And anyway, only a fool turned up his nose at such good free wine.

Whistling lightly, Zellar strolled towards Bowie. Even Bowie seemed less hateful now. "Beautiful night, eh milord?"

Bowie, who had just finished a dance with the princess, spared Zellar only the briefest glance. "Yes. What do you want, Zellar?"

Zellar shook his head, still smiling. Not even Bowie could ruin a night of good wine, insulting or not. "I'm just spending company with you, milord. Have some wine." He followed Bowie's gaze across the room to where Princess Elis sat.

"Mmm!" He smacked his lips. "Tasty dish, eh milord? You're a lucky man. That bosom…" He winked.

Bowie said tightly, "You're out of line, Colonel."

Zellar's good temper began to fade. That this arrogant man just took it for granted that he was the better of them… Zellar could hear his father's whispered slurs. "I came here in friendship, milord."

Bowie yawned. "Yes. Well. Thanks for the wine."

Zellar's hand started to curl, when he saw something else that completely distracted him from Bowie. "What is _he_ doing here," he blurted out, staring.

Bowie followed his gaze. "Oh, him? Some guest of Graig's, I think."

Without a further word, Zellar stalked off. He couldn't be certain, but he could almost swear that he'd just seen the mage, Clatt.

---

Gerhalt frowned skeptically at the report. The beastman had lived most of his life in the wild, though he'd been a nominal citizen of Polca. He shook his head, fixing the young soldier before him with a piercing glance. "That's impossible."

Squirming under the gaze, Sergeant Jellik protested, "But its true sir! The rat's nest isn't where it should be. We looked, and they're not there."

The other solider, a dour man by name of Clovis, nodded. "He's right." There was no 'sir' from Clovis.

Gerhalt considered the situation quickly. Bowie had told him that they were there to track down a possible infestation of rats, and some bandits as well. The beastman was honored that Bowie trusted him enough to see to internal Granserian affairs. But in order for that to be any good, he had to make this mission a success.

He paced round the encampment, knowing that this was a lesson not just for his two scouts, but for all the fifty-odd raw young soldiers under his command. "No, you're not thinking lads. Clovis," he said, cocking his head towards the young man. "They tell me that you were seasoned a bit in the final battle with Galam. Now tell me something, did the Galamani fight with any rats in their ranks?"

"No." There was a pause. "A few, sir. Some of the mages had a few."

"Exactly. Rats can be controlled by magic, though they're not particularly useful in any given fight. But if the Galamani were not using them at large…" He shrugged his shoulders. "Jellik, what might make rats migrate to a new nest?"

The sergeant started. "Well… lack of food or disease. Cold."

Gerhalt nodded. "Well said. It's not been fiercely cold, now has it lads? Plenty of food around. That leaves disease as possible… but you told me there were _no_ rats left. Disease never kills them all off."

Jellik started again. "You mean… the bandits might have?"

Gerhalt smiled. "Excellent reasoning. Yes, they might, if the rats were getting too troublesome. The way to handle this, a second scouting mission. Pick up some more details while the rest guard the camp. You two with me."

Gerhalt was happy to be out in the field. And he was pleased with how little resistance he'd met from the troops. He hadn't been sure how Granserians would take to having a Parmecian commander, but aside from a little rudeness from a few like Clovis, his command had been uncontested. "Just lead me back to the same spot." _They're a good bunch of kids too. Just the sort that will be able to secure Granseal's future. Bowie's plan has merit. _

Really, it had been remarkably generous of Bowie to grant him this command.

---

It was a cacophony of drums, horns, strings. Bowie's head ached and his eyes watered. In one evening he'd seen more opulence than he'd previously seen in a lifetime. And it wasn't as though he had never seen opulence before. Traveling the kingdoms of Parmecia, Bowie had seen astoundingly rich displays.

_Mayhaps I owe Graig an apology. The cost of this must be well beyond anything I could imagine. _

Still, all things considered, the affair was going about as well as could be expected. At least nobody had tried to get a swing in at the Galamani. Yet.

A roar went up near the end of the table. Bowie half turned, but he could hear King Granseal's voice perfectly from where he was. "No! I am the king, you do not tell me what to do!"

Bowie frowned, finished turning. Minister Graig was sprawled across the floor, and King Granseal was on his feet, red-faced with drink and rage. _What in the name of the gods…?_

The green-robed minister picked himself up. "Aye. Aye, Sire." His voice was stiff with outrage as retook his seat. There was an uncomfortable silence up on the dais for a moment, until Princess Elis rose quickly.

:"Father. You need some more wine. I'll pour you some." The old man pulled his arm out of his daughter's grasp.

"King! That's me!" Ramming himself into his chair, he seized the goblet from Elis and downed it at a single gulp. "My command to give. If I want a head, I take it! King. Old and nobody can vanquish me! Giving him to us! They're _giving _him to us. A gift. To do with as the king pleases." He snatched a flagon from the table, gulping much of it down. "And they'll fear us now. Fear me. The king."

Minster Graig muttered, "This is not seemly."

Bowie laughed, though he didn't quite disagree. "His Grace is scarce drunker than General Mrell."

"That is not seemly either. But at least the general is a quiet drunk." Graig's face was disdainful. "Nor are you seemly," he muttered.

The music was still crashing through his head, too loudly. There was something wrong here, but Bowie couldn't think… "What was His Grace talking about?"

Graig ignored the question. Bowie's sense of unease deepened. For the first time he looked around the table. King Granseal was isolated from nearly all effective warriors in the room… but Bowie. _Blast it! I'm letting Slade make me paranoid. _And yet, looking around, all Bowie could see was privilege. Even Princess Elis… _What is she? Vanity and pride. A cunt, a pretty face…_

Suddenly all he could think of was his poor old mother, working so hard all her life to recover from losing her husband young, raising a son alone. _What privilege was there for her? _He was angry, absurdly angry. _I'd sooner fuck a pig than the princess. _

His rage was just formless however. There was no one to hit, no one to relieve him from the burden of suspicion, of being lowborn. There was nothing to relieve the tension of being the champion. And women like Elis, women of class had always been kept from him, but now that there was the prospect of having a woman like that, it sickened him. _Privilege and empty vanity. Well, I'll prove it dammit._

He lurched to his feet, his eye caught by a bold-eyed serving wench. A lowly woman. Did she repulse him? Ha! Who cared? He stepped up, aggressively towards her. He'd prove it. A cunt and a pretty face indeed.

---

"It's working," Kronos muttered to Zocc, nervously keeping his eye on the proceedings.

"Naturally. You dance beautifully, Kronos. A pity you never told me."

"Shut up! This isn't one of your stupid japes. We should… now?"

Zocc frowned. "Should we not give it a little longer, in case-"

"Bowie just left the dais, you fool. As Shaita promised. _Bowie_ is not there. We'll have no better chance than this."

Zocc shrugged. "As you say then. Now."

Kronos smiled slightly. The gambit was as tense as it ever had been, but the resolution to action was a tension that he was more comfortable with. His eye lingered for a moment on Lord Darell. "That one?"

Zocc nodded. "Before he was excellent. After Lord Kazin's… disquieting interest however, I should call him necessary. Don't worry about that. Give me just five minutes and he'll be dancing."

Kronos nodded, and then leaned over to Shaita. "It's ready?"

"My lord. Yes. Quite prepared. Should… should I…"

"No! Not yet. As soon as that one," he indicated Darell with the tilt of his head, "is dancing… then."

---

Gerhalt knelt down at the earth, frowning. "This is… blood." He looked up. "And a deserted camp. How…?"

Jellik looked nervous. "It wasn't like this when we were here…"

Gerhalt paced about, speculating. "But that indicates… if it's that recent." He turned a sharp glance to the ground. "The traces of their… the bandits I suppose they must be, the traces of their tracks…" It hit him. His legs started to shake. "Heading towards our camp."

An unfamiliar voice rang out. "Naturally. That was the idea the whole time. Glad you picked up on it though. I rather liked it myself." From out of one of the tents a scarred man stepped out. Two others joined him from different tents.

"Your orders, Lord Forsyth?"

The man flashed a mocking grin at Gerhalt as the beastman started to step deceptively back. With the scouts backing him, and a quick dash… "Yes indeed," Forsyth said, stroking the scar on his cheek. "We wouldn't want you to leave here entirely unchastened, so… we'll kill your men."

Gerhalt started to spring forward, confident that he had the surprise and thus, the advantage. A sword took him in the back.


	6. Chapter 6: Importance of Circumspection

Chapter 5:

Importance of Circumspection

Kronos rode hard, from time to time edging his head around to take a backwards glance. So far, the pursuit had not set in. As Lord Zocc had promised. A ghost of a smile brushed his lips. It had all been pulled off. _This _was the blow that would provide the beginning of the end of the Gransi, this was the plan that would restore Galam to its rightful place, this was the response merited by the insult that Lord Bowie of Granseal had delivered Kronos's people and this was the maneuver that not even Lord Paul Chelsted could prevent.

"Shaita," he shouted, over the thunder of the horse's hooves and the rush of the wind. "You're bloody well certain you can keep him out of things?"

He could barely hear the shaman's thin voice. "Sir Astral will remain insensate for some hours yet, my lord. Not to worry."

Kronos nodded sharply and turned his face forward again, to avoid any accidents of course, but, more importantly, to conceal the smile of victory on his face. His men needed to see him a stern, tireless, dutiful leader. A man of steel. _It is all mine. Vengeance, honor, safety… Galam is mine. _

---

The air in the dungeons was cool, and all the cooler for the water dripping from his scalp. Bowie shook his head briefly, trying to get the cold out of his bones. That, he suspected, would be easier than ridding himself of the guilt. _Gods, but what was going through my mind? Taking that poor woman was… I don't even know what that was! _

He swung the door open, and froze, momentarily arrested by the sight within. Lord Darell was hanging against the wall, chained by his wrists. His face was badly bruised, and blood was trickling from his lower lip. Colonel Zellar spun around to face Bowie, a blood-stained knife in his hand.

"Zellar…" Bowie nearly choked on his own bile. "What are you _doing_?!"

The colonel fingered his small pointed beard, sparing the lordling only the briefest of glances. "A traitor," he said, almost indifferently.

Bowie stepped forward, fists clenched. "Dammit man, I know about that! That doesn't condone torture. What kind of a Gransi are you?"

A look of confused rage quickly eclipsed the indifference. Zellar's hand tightened against the knife in his hand. "We need to know everything." Eyes burning in that stern face, the colonel took a step forward. "He's just a Galamani! A _traitor_. He has no claims of honor."

Bowie clenched his teeth hard, swallowed. He could not even say that Zellar was wrong. Lord Darell was a traitor. All of the Galamani were traitors, according to Granserian custom. _This is wrong. _In answer he could hear the demon's voice, still echoing in his ears. _There are no crimes when you are the only one left. _Always that same accursed assertion! What did it mean?

Bowie took another few steps forward, ignoring Zellar now, kneeling down in front of the chained captive.

"Yes," hissed Zellar. "Do it, milord!"

Bowie scarcely noticed the mocking title, his attention far more focused on the knife that was suddenly in his hands. The bloodstained knife. Stained with Lord Darell's blood. Bowie swallowed, staring into the pale young nobleman's face. Chained, beaten, bloody, you could really see how young Darell was. A boy. And yet, conversely, there seemed to be an air of grace, a true cast of nobility in him that Bowie had not recalled noticing before.

He looked at the knife, so sharp and bright and slick with blood. Trembling, he held the point close to Lord Darell's chest. The nobleman stared back at him, a spark of fear in his young eyes. _Just a boy. _

Bowie did not know how he felt at this moment. His thoughts were too confused, too disordered. Mad old Galam was there in his thoughts, laughing and whispering at him. And the girl he had taken during the feast. His blood boiled with shame. What had driven him to _that_? He couldn't say, but at the time, that wave of disgust, frustration, desire… it had swept over him. Swept him away. _I was not there for Sir Astral. I forced us into a battle with Galam that I couldn't actually win. Only the wildest stroke of luck won that battle. And now…_

Torture… was it even wrong to use it on an enemy? A traitor with no claim to honor? He squeezed his hand more tightly against the hilt. _I've already made so many mistakes. _He stared into Darell's eyes, moving the point in a bit further. "I…"

The door to the cell slammed open. "What is the meaning of this?"

Bowie started, the knife clattering numbly from his hand. He turned and saw Minister Graig, an expression of near apoplectic fury on his face. "That is _enough_." His tone went beyond disgust. Graig's gaze fell on Zellar. "Unchain him."

"What," sputtered Zellar. "Minister, I-"

"Do it! Now."

Seething, the colonel's hands busied themselves with the manacles at Lord Darell's wrists. As he released the second shackle, Darell collapsed to the floor of the cell with a faint cry of relief.

Graig stepped to the side, jerking a thumb towards Lord Darell. "You two," he said to a couple of guards over his shoulder, "take him and clean him up. Treat his wounds. We'll want this one later."

The guards seized Darell roughly off of the floor, carrying him easily enough away. Graig looked at both of them with disfavor, his eyes still carrying frozen fury in them. "We are _not_ those kinds of men," he said coldly.

Bowie slowly rose, looking mutely at the stonework. He was completely shamed, but he was not certain if it was because he had lacked the courage that Graig had just displayed or if it had been because he honestly had not known what to do.

It was nearly on his tongue to tell Graig what had happened, that he hadn't truly taken any part in the abuse of Darell, but he choked the words back. He could already see, it would never be enough for the Lord Minister. It would make no difference to this man. And it would be dishonest besides. Bowie had not truly rebuked Zellar either. He had considered turning the knife against Darell; he had nearly brought himself to do it…

_There are no crimes when you are the only one left. _The thought lent him some confidence, as he followed Zellar and Graig out of the cell. "Lord Minister," he began, but the bald old man merely shot him another contemptuous glance.

"We will talk once we reach the council chamber. It is best that these affairs do not spill out at all."

Bowie clenched his teeth, submitting to Graig's criticism. Just at the moment he felt that he was the loneliest man in all of Grans. Was there anyone else in the whole of the island who could understand what he felt, not just the shame, but the true ambiguity? Graig could understand the contempt, surely, and Zellar the anger perhaps. But amongst all the others, amongst even his friends, would they understand what it meant to see two equally valid paths before one's eyes? Was it even possible? Only Sir Astral might have known, might have understood.

The agony gripped his stomach. _Sir Astral…_ His old mentor. His old friend. Gone now. In the clutch of the Galamani to be tormented or slain as they chose. He had utterly failed Sir Astral in a way that left him wishing he could weep. _Weeper! Cravenly weeper! _

_And gods… _The woman he had taken. That was what truly stung. He had not been at the dais, for what reason? Pride he had thought at the time. But had it merely been his pride? _Taking her was…well, not that she found that attention undesirable, but why would I do such a thing? That was weak, shameful. I failed everyone by taking her for my own pride… was I drunk? Drunk on wine, on power, on helplessness? Or am I truly that contemptible a being? _The loneliness clawed into his heart deeper than ever. With Sir Astral gone, he was alone in this way. _And there are no crimes when you are the only one left. _

"I…" He forced the words out of his throat, forced the shame from flooding his voice. "I know what's happened. But how? Why?"

Graig sighed, and his tone was gentler than it had been. "The answers to these questions lie in the council, my lord. Not with me."

Bowie nodded, forgetting that the green-robed minister would be unable to see the gesture, walking ahead as he was. He held his silence. What more could he say, after all? What could he ever say that would actually show Graig the tumult in his soul? Graig might hear his words, but he would not listen. _Weeper! _

After another several minutes of walking, they finally reached the council chamber. Graig opened the door for them, at last addressing Zellar. "Colonel, guard the door. Don't let anyone through without checking with me."

Zellar's eyes started to smolder, but he took up a guard position nonetheless. Zellar always obeyed orders. It was his greatest virtue.

Holding his head slightly, Bowie followed the Lord Minister into the council chamber putting his disagreeable subordinate out of his mind.

"My dear Lord Bowie," coughed Mrell, hopping to his feet, "what's happened to you, man? You look absolutely horrible. Why, you're dripping wet."

Bowie clenched his teeth, settled into a chair, fought the darkness swimming around his head. "An unfortunate necessity, General Mrell. The water was most… refreshing."

"Oh." Mrell coughed loudly, staring at the floor.

"Might we begin?" Graig's voice sounded tight.

Mrell started to sit back down, but Bowie sat straight up, ignoring the confusion in his mind. "No. Where is His Grace?"

Graig looked at him, his expression utterly disgusted. "His Grace is _drunk_. Surely you're quick enough to catch that much."

Bowie glared straight back. "He is the king. You propose to try to come to some… some policy without him?"

"Lord Bowie, do not pretend to be stupider than you are." Graig steepled his fingers. "His Grace rarely bothers to attend our council meetings as it is. I see no reason to expend time or effort making certain that His Grace is no longer inebriated and present here."

"Of course not," spat Bowie to cover his own doubts. "That way you can speak for him and have you way that much more easily. Granseal has been _attacked._ What is that if not a matter of the king?"

Graig's eyes misted with fury momentarily, but his rage did not spill over into his tone. He sighed deeply. "You think me a bitter old man, Lord Bowie. You think me against you. You think me a self-serving schemer. I assure you, my lord, I want only what is best for Granseal. No one here is your enemy."

He exhaled sharply, his muscles tensing involuntarily. _He opposes me! He does. In the Council, he always opposes me. He's made it clear. _But how could Bowie say that? Disagreement over policy was not a legitimate accusation of power. His eyes watered. _Gods, not now. Not with Sir Astral…_ His chest clenched and his watered all the more fiercely. He could hear them now, if only they knew it all. _Weeper! Cravenly weeper! _

"What else do you suggest then?" Bowie swallowed as much of his anger as he could, trying to be as mild as possible. _What right have I to judge Graig anyway? I was not at the dais…_

Graig's gaze remained cold. "I take it you do not know how the abduction was carried off?" Bowie mutely shook his head. "That is a matter that bears more investigation, even for those of us who witnessed it," the Lord Minister declared. He twisted around briefly, his hand stretching out towards the room's single window. "If you would be so kind, my lord."

Bowie started, staring at the splash of hair, gleaming like burnished copper in this light. He hadn't seen him, standing there at the window with his back to all of them. "Kazin."

The mage turned, his face smooth, blank. He glanced at Bowie, and his jaw worked momentarily, betraying his agitation. "As you command, my Lord Minister. As far as I can see the fact of the abduction is simple enough. Lord Kronos's pet shaman had a device of power; an amulet. It may be that I've read of it, but nothing immediately comes to mind. Using that, they overpowered Sir Astral's senses and fled. It was a very simple scheme."

Bowie frowned. "How is it that they left Lord Darell behind? That strikes me as clumsy."

Kazin met his gaze for a moment before turning again, so that he was looking out on the night. "That," the elf said quietly, "I cannot be certain of. Lord Darell was dancing at the time. He likely did not know."

General Mrell coughed loudly, stroking his moustache. "Lord Darell may hold the answers we seek," he pronounced carefully. "Indeed! The very answers we seek. Mayhaps it would be prudent to question him."

Graig frowned. "We do not have a full understanding or consensus as to what our questions are yet. I should think it best to await Master Slade's findings."

"My lords!" Bowie stood, ignoring his impulse to weep, relegating his doubts to the back of his mind. _I have failed you once, Astral. Not again. _"My lords," he repeated in a softer, still forceful, tone. "Give me but an hour and, with the aid of my friends, I can gather at least a hundred swords."

The room seemed to become deathly still, and for just a moment Bowie thought he could see King Galam standing over Graig's shoulder, laughing at him. _The king_, the demon grated, _the king of nothing._

"Indeed." Graig's voice was very soft. "And what should we do with these hundred swords, my lord?"

"_Strike_! If we move now, we negate everything that Lord Kronos has attempted to accomplish here."

Graig stared at him. "And what would come after such a measure, my lord? Would we punish this insult?"

"Well…" Bowie spluttered, nonplussed by the question. "Of course, dammit. This… an act of war."

Graig sat there, looking at the table, twisting his robe in his hands. "No." It was a hard word, intended to end the discussion. "No," he repeated.

"Dammit," Bowie exploded, rising to his feet in wrath. "You pompous ass! Don't you see? Every moment we delay, Kronos gets Sir Astral further from our reach. If we move now-"

"You probably wouldn't reach Lord Kronos anyway." General Mrell nodded his head sorrowfully several times. "No, most like not. Lord Kronos is a good warrior, he will be away fast. You would strip Granseal of its strongest defenders for a useless purpose, my lord. No, no. It would not do." He scratched his moustache.

"_You_ can say that," Bowie snapped heatedly, "but with air support we-"

A hand placed itself on his shoulder. It was Kazin. The mage had evidently strolled over from the window. "It still probably would not serve, Bowie," he said, and his tone was more sympathetic than Mrell's had been. "I spent time with Lord Kronos. He was arrogant, nervous, rude, but above all, he was impatient. He would not take time returning to Galam in any circumstances, let alone these."

Bowie spun, unwilling to listen, and he shoved Kazin hard. The mage uttered a mild curse as he went sprawling to the polished floor. "Ha! What do you know of these things," Bowie nearly screamed at him. His guilt would not relent. He had nearly destroyed Granseal, he had not been there when Sir Astral had needed him, and he had nearly brought himself to bring the knife to Lord Darell. How could he not hate himself for such failings? "You're just a mage and I can knock you straight on your ass!"

Kazin got slowly to his feet, leaning on the table a bit as he did so. His cheek twitched momentarily, and his movements were stiff. "As you say, my lord," he said in a wooden voice.

Bowie was suddenly, deeply ashamed. "I…"

"No." Graig's ice-cold voice washed back over him. "I do not authorize it. Lord Kazin you may be able to defeat, but he is in your reach whereas Lord Kronos is not. Enough of this."

"But…" Bowie steadied his jaw as best he could as the grief swept over him. The room blurred, and the light became harsher in his eyes. He could feel the water, straining to get out. _No. Sir Astral…_ He could still hear the thinly-veiled contempt in Graig's voice. _Weeper! Cravenly weeper!_

With a groan, Bowie slumped back into his seat. _I have no right to voice my counsel. I can barely stay awake during the ordinary sessions. Graig is Lord Minister. He can. _It was not enough to stop him from trying though. "Please." He looked up, locked eyes with the green-robed head of the council. "Please. If we strike and strike successfully, then we negate all the advantage Galam has picked up."

Graig looked straight at him. "You are willful, my lord."

Bowie gaped at him, in frustrated silence. This old man called him willful? This fool? The rage coiled.

"Now, now," Mrell coughed loudly, "mayhaps we can…" His voice drifted off, as he stared at the two of them.

"That's right, Mrell," Bowie said coldly. "Give him a chance to get the poison out of his blood." He tilted his head sarcastically to the Lord Minister of Granseal. "Pray continue."

Graig's mouth was a hard line. "As you wish. I warned you, my lord. I told you, you were going too fast with your plans for peace with the Galamani, and you are going too fast now. Lord Bowie, you are heedless."

"Yes," Bowie hissed at him. "But I'm not a child, Lord Minister, and I know exactly what I'm doing. You're an obstructionist old fool with no understanding of honor, and I will not be dictated to by you!"

Graig stood, his eyes filled with cold rage. "I do not authorize your strike."

Bowie exploded out of his seat, nearly throwing himself across the table, his fists seizing hold of Graig's green robe. "You are not the king. I may do as I wish with my own sworn swords."

Contempt oozed out of Graig's tone. "And what will you do, my lord, snap me like a twig if I stand in your way? That is treason."

General Mrell hopped over, waving his arms agitatedly. "This is enough, gentlemen." He grabbed Bowie's left arm. "Please, my lord, let the Lord Minister go. My lords…"

Bowie glared for a moment longer, and then violently released Graig. The old man had been giving a good impression of just standing in place, but he fell right into his chair.

Bowie nodded brusquely to Kazin. "Prepare the others. We leave within the hour."

"Hold." Graig's retort was breathless. "Do as you will, my lord, though do not say I did not warn you. But at least allow us to question Lord Darell first. That is my price for supporting your folly."

"Very well," Bowie said sullenly, sitting back down. He gestured at Kazin to continue. "Make certain they are rea-"

"I want Lord Kazin to conduct the interrogation."

It took Bowie a moment to catch the implication. "Kaz… you mean to compel answers with _magic_? That's disgusting!"

Graig gave him a chilling glance. "You would quibble with me over that? It was not I who held a knife to his chest."

Bowie swallowed, forced himself to not object to the criticism. "That was…" He set his jaw. "If Sir Astral were here he would tell it was wrong. He would not do this."

"You arrogant pup!" Graig hit the table, his eyes smoldering with rage. "You don't know Sir Astral at all. He has thrice performed this very task for King Granseal himself."

Bowie gripped the table, trying to halt the ice in his blood. "You lie. I won't respect that."

"And I do not respect you. We will be on with this and you will control yourself, or I will have you chained to the dungeons my lord, until His Grace is at leisure to review these matters personally."

"_I_ dislike this," Mrell broke in sharply, halting his ceaseless pacing. He fiddled with the ends of his moustache. "If you propose to lock up Lord Bowie for that objection, best add me to your list, Lord Minister."

"Oh, your so honorable objection," snapped Graig. "Were it up to you, we would be torturing the man!"

Mrell lowered his gaze. "Well… if it came down to one or the other…" He poured himself a cup of wine, his face sullen and closed.

_Gods, _Bowie thought despairingly. _I am surrounded by fools. _A blacker thought occurred to him. _Yet if it leads to Sir Astral's recovery…_ The pain gripped his chest again, so tightly he could scarcely breathe. He had not been there for his old mentor, and for what? Pride.

Desperate, he turned to his final means of objection, the only arrow he had yet to loose. "But if Kazin… Do you consent?"

He was staring into his friend's cool green eyes. Kazin glanced at him, then at Graig. He paced thoughtfully over to Mrell, and produced a small cup of wine for himself that he drank at a gulp. He strode back over to the window, gracing Bowie with one more glance. He turned to his back, staring out into the night again. "I will do it."

---

The night was dark, windy. The sky had a stormy cast to it, but it was not raining, and for that much, Clatt could profess honest and complete gratitude.

It seemed such a long time since he had waken in that cell, only to be released, but the mage knew that it had been only a few days. A giddy laugh built up in his throat, yearning to be released. Clatt stifled it as best he could, glancing around nervously.

It was dark enough out here that he was not confident he could see everything, and only in the most desperate straits would he consider conjuring up fire to help him see. If he could see, other things could see him. The horse beneath him whinnied nervously. The animal could sense it too.

There was a feeling of power in the air, and it was one that Clatt did not recognize. That it was old, powerful, he did not doubt. He pulled his robe tightly against himself. His hands were shaking. He had never been overly fond of the dark or mysterious missions.

Clatt was rather fond of his own life however, and of power. If he could pull this off, both things would be his. He had nearly wrested control from the hands' of his lords back in Rune, but then the Shining Force had laid waste to Skull Castle. He had been fortunate to escape that.

The thought brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. The wind picked up strength, pulling harder at the hood of his cloak, but Clatt was too absorbed in his memories to take any note of that. At the time, he had been scared. High Commander Eiku had been taken in an ambush, betrayed, or so the men whispered. All of his subordinates were in disfavor. They may even have been given to the axe!

Clatt shivered pleasurably, fully pleased with himself for avoiding an end, either from Mishalea or the Shining Force's rage (though nothing he had done had had any particular effect on that). Was this not more evidence of his greatness? He had avoided the fate that had found the lords of the darkness! He had been spared for a glorious purpose, Clatt was certain. And he had made himself before all on his own talents. He could do it again. He was Clatt.

He was jolted back to the present as his horse shied away from the path in front of him. Cursing, Clatt reached down to stroke its head, thinking to calm it, perhaps to try to enter its thoughts the better to do so. The horse whinnied, reared upwards, and galloped forward.

Clatt howled in fright, the wind suddenly seeming much more real as he struggled to get a hold on the reins, to bring the horse to a halt. "Sto-st-stop!" The frightened squeak had no more effect on the horse than it would have had on a storm.

Flailing wildly, he nearly regained his seat. Only for his foot to slide out of the stirrup. Screaming in terror, he started to slide down the side of the horse. He was going to die, he'd seen what happened when a man was left dangling by the side of a rampaging horse, he was finally going to die, he was…

Something hard hit him in the face, and the next thing he knew, he was lying sprawled out on the ground, the trees of the forest above him. Whimpering in pain, he slowly sat up. Blood was in his mouth and the horse was nowhere to be seen. "F-fu-f-fuck!"

He tried to regain his feet, but the world swam sickeningly around him. He sat back down with a thump, and considered bursting into unmanly tears. He very nearly did too, but in the end he decided to crawl forward.

The tears still stung his eyes. It wasn't _fair. _He'd risen high under Lynx, but then the High Commander had killed himself. Eiku had chosen to retain his services, but then Mishalea had killed Eiku. He had kept his life, but then the Shining Force had killed Mishalea. He had wandered, alone, powerless, drunk more often than not, getting by with just his wits and often by the skin of his teeth.

It had been a godsend when Colonel Zellar had just let him go. Grans was a civilized place; he had a chance to be comfortable here. There were at least two powerful wizards at court. That had been promising. And so he had applied himself to Lord Minister Graig in hopes of earning a place for himself. Graig had been courteous to him; he had listened despite the stutter unlike all of the others. And though he had been unable to promise Clatt anything, he had suggested that Clatt do him just one small, easy favor…

Only now even that had gone wrong. There was rumble in the air, and rain started to fall. Tears sprang into his eyes again. Whimpering, he stumbled to his feet, half-running half-dragging himself forward. Where to, he didn't know. All he knew was that he had to escape the rain.

One of his sandals snapped. Clatt gave in and wept openly at that, still hobbling along. Why did everything have to happen to him? What had he done to deserve it? He was _Clatt_. These things should have been happening to other people, not to him…

It was then that he saw it. A door in a small outcrop of rocks. Heedless of everything else now, he ran straight for it, throwing himself at it. The door resisted him in an oddly fluid way for a moment, almost as though it was mobile and he stationary, but then it swung open. Clatt jumped in quickly.

The air in this place was thick, heavy, encroaching, immense. And yet the… he blinked. He seemed to be in some kind of ruins. The place was as airy as it was encroaching. As hot as it was cold. And there was some kind of blue light in it.

Clatt huddled in a corner, trying to make himself comfortable. He would wait out the storm, try to remember a healing spell and then… Without the horse, the task would take him twice as long. He wanted to cry again. It wasn't fair.

"Ah." The voice was dusty and Clatt jumped. A figure hovered in front of him. It was dressed in a faded blue uniform with burning eyes and an unruly beard. "Splendid. You are here."

Clatt stared in horror. More power than he had ever felt before in any one presence, even Zeon's, was concentrated in this figure. "Y-you…" He swallowed nervously, stumbling upright, circling the figure. "You're n-not r-r-really h-here."

"Perceptive mage," the figure laughed. "I appear solid where most other illusions do not."

"S-still…" with sheer force of will, he strangled his urge to stutter the word, "diluted."

The figure chuckled again. "You are here at the behest of your worldly master. What is this purpose, mage?"

Clatt knew better than to try to answer untruthfully to a being of this much power. "A… sh-ship. I am t-to m-mee-meet a ship. C-co-coll-c-collect th-the car-cargo. Th-then d-destroy th-the s-sh-sh-ship."

The figure nodded understandingly. "You are not far from the southern cove. Doubtless this is where you were heading. Continue there. Serve your worldly master. Kill the people crewing the ship. But keep the ship itself. Keep it hidden." The figure laughed again. "I can see the doubt in you mage, but you know enough to do my bidding. You are here for a higher reason, and that is me. Stay the night, and then proceed. You'll be able to keep in touch with me when you need to."

The figure flickered, twisted and vanished. But in his chest, Clatt could feel a burning sensation that could only be power, a mark of the figure perhaps. And even though he was cold from the rain, he felt warm inside. He was reborn. The servant of a god.


	7. Chapter 6: Betrayals

Chapter 6:

Betrayals

The darkness was absolute. This realization alone would have been enough to send him into a desperate panic if not for his awareness of his absolute agony. "Wh…" His voice was nearly gone, hoarse and useless. There was blazing pain in his back. He couldn't see. It took only moments for the absolute panic to set in.

_Blind…_ He tried to drag himself forward, but he was too weak. The pain shrieked more loudly than ever as he tried to move. "Uhhh…" He tried to summon a burst of will, but as he looked inwards, he found nothing. That was the worst of all. For if he looked in and found nothing, then who was he? In contrast to the nothingness he could find of himself, did he truly exist? "Hhhhhoo…" He lost control of the word, but it was an improvement.

A prickling of light burst along his senses. He could see shadows! He could see at all. He would have wept could he find the tears.

"Shhh," whispered a voice. "Shhh. Commander, don't strain yourself."

"Hhho…Hhhoooow?" The word burst through his lips, but to him it sounded only a feral snarl.

"Shhh, no, don't worry." He could feel a hand steadying him on the back of his neck, a cool liquid trickling past his lips, cooling his throat, smoothing his voice out. With a monumental burst of strength, Gerhalt reached up a clawed hand, seizing the shadow in front of him. "How. Happened." His chest was so tight with pain that he could barely get the question out.

The shadow strained ineffectually against his iron grip. "Commander, I don't think…"

He shook him. "Where! Answer. Wine. Get. Me. Wine."

"Alright, alright. Take it easy, Commander." The shadow started easing backwards. The strength abruptly left him, and he allowed his hand to slide back to the ground. More of the world was starting to take shape in his eyes though.

"It was… do you remember the sword, Commander?"

Sword… It took him a few moments of heavy thought, but then Gerhalt realized. The blazing pain. The sword. Of course. "Ambushed," he muttered thickly. "Betrayed."

"Commander…" The shadow was looming over him again, and this time Gerhalt could make out something of the features. A thin-faced young man with shining blue eyes and lank blonde hair. Only who was he? Where were they? There had been the sword, that much was true, that much Gerhalt remembered… But… had it always been this blue-eyed young man here? He thought he could remember another face right there, stern, dour…

"Recruits," he rasped, the memory coming back to him. "Ambushed."

"Shhh, Commander, you're very weak. We barely managed to fight them off and get to this cave. You've got to get your strength back, Commander."

He hawked up a glob of blood. A cave… yes that explained the shadows, the silence, the secluded atmosphere. But this man hadn't always been there. "Not… there…"

The man looked him over anxiously. "Commander…" He swallowed. "It was Clovis, Commander. He betrayed us all, the sick bastard. He attacked you from behind. We'll get him, though, Commander. We'll get vengeance on all of them."

Clovis… The memories began falling fast and thick. The mission. The honor Bowie had shown him. His scouts. Jellik and Clovis. The scarred man. The sword. The revelations, the remembrances were nearly staggering in meaning. But, curiously enough, Gerhalt could find no immediate response to knowledge of his situation.

He might have wept for his wounds; the deaths' of his young charges, the betrayal… but the pain would not relent. He could not weep if the pain would not retreat. Tears took too much strength, and he had too little of that. He could rage. He could find just a little of that in himself, but it was weak, pale diluted. It hurt too much to rage. The scarred man who had deceived and killed the men Bowie had given him charge of…

That stirred a little of something. Bowie. The thought made the pain notch down just a little. _Bowie. He trusted me… _Or he had betrayed him. Gerhalt did not have the strength to care which was true. Why was there the unease? Groaning in the effort, he forced his hand forward, dug his claws at the unyielding rock. He dragged himself slightly forward.

Jellik's voice greeted him. "Commander! Don't try to move. You…"

Why could he see a darker shadow in his mind? He could hear Clovis's dour voice even now. "Don't worry. I'm with you now."

"No." The word came out, hoarse, weak. He could not move. He could not remember. In remembering he merely grasped words that were sharp as knives. Whimpering, Gerhalt lay there, tried to curl up, to shut out everything else. "Betrayed," he rasped. _Betrayed. _

* * *

"Two, three more sessions perhaps," Jellik announced, smiling. "He becomes more confused by the hour."

Forsyth stroked his scar, but his face might have been hewn of rock for all the expression it showed. "Our aims have altered."

Jellik's smile tightened. "All I require-"

"Is time," Forsyth interrupted. "That we do not have."

Jellik stood there for a long hot moment, his hand twitching on the hilt of his knife. "Captain knows best," he whispered, hand still twitching. "Captain always knows best."

Clovis glanced warily at him, and then back at Forsyth. "What is our new aim?"

"We must needs take a more direct approach," Forsyth declared loudly. "Our play with the wolf pup no longer is a priority. We'll leave him to die. He's no longer important enough to worry about."

"Captain knows best," Jellik whispered, his shoulders jerking. Gerhalt had been his to work on and it infuriated him more than he could say to just have to leave his work undone. He flipped his knife out, furiously digging in the dirt with it. The old captain had been a god in human form, until Forsyth had killed him.

That fascinated Jellik. He hated the queer cold northerner that now leaded them, but he was in awe of him at the same time. To have slain the captain… _Forsyth one day. But the Galamani first. Always the Galamani. Scum. _

As the others were breaking camp, Jellik broke off abruptly, whistling happily. He'd stabbed an ant. He watched the insect writhing in agony, not quite slain. Glowing with a smile, the assassin regained his feet. The ant would die here, just as the wolfman would. It was enough to brighten the day.

* * *

The rain was ice-cold, and it filled his saddles. Zellar pulled his cloak tighter about himself, glaring at the elements, the muck his horse was churning up. His circuit of the city was almost done, but that thought alone was not enough to cheer him. It was a misty rain, and even though he'd just moments ago reentered the city, Zellar was still unnerved by the way a man's mind would lie to him. "Bloody paths," he muttered.

He scowled uncertainly at the sky, as his horse shied away from the street he was directing it down. His temper nearly snapped. "Bloody hell! We're almost there. You want a stall or don't you?"

He had been assigned the very last of the watches to be drawn tonight. All because Bowie was taking the field again, it had been deemed that another watch be drawn. It had been deemed that Zellar should do it. He shivered roughly against the rain. "Why do I have to do this," he grumbled. "I'm the second best sword in the city; I should be in the field." He pushed a hand through his soaking wet hair. "I'm a colonel dammit!" Why had Bowie insisted on making this his watch?

"Oh yes," he sneered, remembering. "Because Bowie is a bloody bastard." He laughed bitterly. He was tired of the rain, he was tired of his uncertainties, he was tired of his own company, and he was tired of being assigned tasks that were beneath him. But most of all he was tired of his bloody arrogant superior. _Might as well call him 'general' for the authority that he wields. _

Zellar nursed that slight in silent anger, huddling miserably in his cloak. He was soaked through and mud-spattered besides, but the reflex almost felt warmer. Almost. Nearing the castle always put the old tumult in his mind. Zellar could hear the voices even now; he could relive the years as though no time had passed. His mind was a long hall in that old house, filled with rewards, successes and more failures than he cared to count. And the cold-eyed portraits of all his ancestors.

They were always there, looking down on him. Zellar hated being looked down on. Because the truth of the matter was that he hadn't done enough. Never enough to satisfy those old portraits and never enough to satisfy his father. Zellar's father had been a man of small compassion. The only thing he had ever seen in his son was the potential to carry on the family honor, and the failure implicit in being less than the very best.

That old man had put a sword into Zellar's hands at an age where most boys were still being weaned. And even now, years later, even after all Colonel Zellar, a commander of the war, an occasional councilor to the highest levels, despite all he had accomplished, he could still hear his father's booming judgmental voice.

It cried out in his soul, demanding ever more. Zellar drew the cloak even closer about himself. _Not as good as Bowie. _That had been the worst. _Not as good as Bowie_. His father had never seen anything else in him.

The first years hadn't been so bad. Most of his father's friends had had the words of praise that his father had never found in himself, and that had sustained Zellar for a while. But no matter how well he did in tourneys, how many ribbons from impressed young girls he'd tied around his arm, how much better he performed at sword, lance, and bow when fighting the other young squires, no matter how well he did any of that, his father had demanded that he do more. _Too weak. Not as good as Bowie. _

Bowie had risen like the sun on the castle, but he'd never set. He'd only recently risen to his dazzling new heights, but all Zellar's father had ever cared about was that some stripling of a boy was better than his son. _Not as good as Bowie. _

Zellar halted his horse, and vaulted off of its back. He glared at the stable boy on duty. "See that my horse is fed." He turned without another word, his long-dead father, still his most ardent critic, whispering through his mind.

Zellar had accomplished much in his life. He had risen to heights that were great for his age, but not as great as Bowie's. He had fought for the championship in more tournaments than he could count. But Bowie had always won. And while Zellar had taken much admiration from women over the years, women of class, refinement, culture were kept from him. And Bowie was being considered for the hand of the princess, where Zellar had once hoped for that very honor himself. _And the unworthy, arrogant bucket of puss can't let any good-looking woman go past him. The king's golden boy…_

Zellar nursed his anger with the thought that he might take his mistress tonight. The woman loved him, and that made it easy enough. She would allow it regardless of the circumstances, wishing to please him. Zellar had beaten her for that once or twice. It was a weakness he recognized from his own childhood.

Shivering and dripping wet, Zellar stopped at the central gatehouse, stepping inside. Seated at the massive desk was General Mrell. It was a formality. All guards returning in had to report to the gatehouse and the commanding officer on duty. In his advanced age, it was Mrell more often than not.

Zellar hated reporting in. He hated Mrell. Ordinarily he would have just put his head in and gone off immediately, but it was too bloody cold to go immediately tonight. "Nothing, sir," he started to say, but Mrell talked right over him, red-faced and smiling.

"Zellar, my dear boy." He nodded happily at him, fumbling with a goblet in his hand. "Have a seat. Have a cup of wine. From the king's personal stock. A gift."

Only a fool would turn up a chance at such good wine, and so Zellar sat, though he immediately resented the fact of it. Nobody ever gifted him with anything. What did one have to do to curry such favor? "That's good," he said instead.

Mrell nodded, scratching his moustache. "Indeed, indeed. Tell me now, boy, how much did they tell you, eh? You're practically senior staff these days! Young for it, eh?"

"Oh, you know," Zellar replied, the corners of his mouth turning downward. "It's nothing as prestigious as all that. Anyway sir, if you really don't need me here for anything…" It would be good to go to Dia, tonight, he decided abruptly. Nothing put him more in the mood for sex than the thought that he could take pleasure from what a man like Mrell could no longer pursue.

"Colonel. Drink some wine with me. It was a gift from the king."

Zellar sat. "A gift, you say?"

Mrell scratched his moustache with one hand the other one fumbling beneath the desk. "It's my birthday." His left hand produced a cup. A few gentle glugging sounds later, Mrell pushed the cup across the desk.

Zellar lifted the cup, sniffing suspiciously. A strong, heady vintage. "How ancient are you, then? It must be your hundredth."

"So witty." Mrell yawned, lifting his own cup. "Be happy for me, Colonel."

Zellar drank. Ah. Sour wine, easing his throat. But the flavor of it recalled his father's spartan habits to him. There was a man who only drank wine when it was boiled and poured into a wound and then only if some happened to splash into his mouth.

"More? Tell me, Colonel, how is your arm? It seemed to take quite the blow during the tourney."

Zellar stiffened slightly. "A glancing blow, no more."

"Ah, but glancing blows can be so very disorienting. You'd better aim though, this year. You were practicing in the orchards? Early mornings of course, so as not to be seen, hmm?"

His teeth came together. Those veiled insults were as much meant to offend as they were ingrained habit, Zellar supposed. He certainly could not recall any time in his life that Mrell had been able to resist a few cheap digs. "Actually, General," he said, choosing to return his attention to Mrell's earlier interest in his duty, "the city is remarkably quiet. Almost as though its in mourning. Folks are indoors. I suppose that it's for the coming war as much as for old Astral."

Mrell frowned. "War?"

"I enjoy some confidence in the castle," Zellar's voice was bit sharper than he'd meant it to be.

Mrell arched his brows, the momentary fluster gone. "More?" He held up the bottle in offer.

Zellar glared at the general, hating and requiring him at the same instant. All he'd accomplished in his life, younger soldiers listening to him, respecting him, even Mrell talking to him like this, it was enough to help soothe Zellar's spirit and quiet his father's voice.

But in Mrell's case, it was only the slightest bit of relief. He hated Mrell. The old general had known his father. What better reason did he need to hate him? "What do you want, General?" Zellar was a suspicious man by nature, and he was adept at reading faces. Mrell had been waiting, and for him especially, he was certain. It intrigued and disgusted him at once.

"Oh nothing, nothing Colonel," Mrell told him, smiling and drinking.

Zellar almost laughed aloud. How big a fool did the old man think him? He finished his wine, slammed his goblet down onto the table. "More." Mrell was only too happy to oblige.

Zellar relaxed a little, drinking the wine, as Mrell chatted with him, occasionally asking a question about his personal life. Zellar was getting drunker, but he could still think straight, and he was nearly insulted in the transparency of Mrell's plan. The old general had been waiting for him, and was plying him with wine. Clearly the questions would start soon, that was why Mrell had started asking any in the first place, just to get him used to answering.

Well, what did it matter to Zellar? He was hardly stupid enough to fall for such a ploy, but the wine was free, and so was Mrell's conversation. "Why so many questions about my personal life, General?" Zellar asked, purposely slurring his voice more than it actually was.

Mrell shook his head and smiled at Zellar. "Oh, no reason. I'm just happy for you, Colonel."

"Ha!" Zellar slammed his goblet back down, waiting for Mrell to fill it back up. "You've never been happy for me before."

Mrell laughed. "Did you know that a Galamani was once found sitting on His Grace's throne? Oh, this was years ago of course, before the war. This was old Lord Koster; we fought together against the Yeeli often. Anyway, the Yeeli once managed an attack that penetrated into the castle with the intent to kill His Grace. Some of us were still out in the field, but we rallied a counter-attack that proved decisive. And there was Lord Koster, bold as you like, sitting on the throne, the Yeeli general at his feet, blood drying on his throat. And there we were, Graig and I and one or two of the others—yes, even Graig could swing a sword in those days, can you imagine?" Mrell guffawed. "Never well, though. Watching Graig fight is rather like watching a butcher's apprentice chop meat, as likely to slash his own fingers than not. Never follow that man's orders till you've thought them through for yourself. Now where was I?"

"Was my father with you?" Zellar heard himself asking.

"Not in the throne room. He probably would have killed Koster for the impertinence of it. But anyway Koster rises and says, "Killing Yeeli is thirsty work and this was the only chair in the room!"

Zellar laughed openly. He was enjoying himself far too much not to. Mrell was a thoroughly charming man. But, even as he realized this, it occurred to Zellar that in all the years he'd served under the general, they'd never actually talked as they were right now.

He'd reported to the old man, passed a word here or there, fought with him occasionally, but they'd never actually talked. He blamed Mrell for this. Was it his fault? Absolutely not. Zellar had always been available for conversation, more than available. He reveled in the new reason to hate his general.

"You were waiting for me," he said abruptly.

Mrell just smiled at him, filled his goblet again. "Toast my health, colonel."

Zellar did so, but he silently resented it. Mrell was using him for something, or wanted to. Well, they were both getting good and drunk, and after all these years he'd tell the old man exactly what he really thought of him. But not just yet. Not while they were still talking like old friends. Just a while longer yet. Mrell's face was growing redder as well though, and the general was making less and less effort in masking his own interests. The conversation turned to one of the only points of common ground between the two of them; Zellar's father whom Mrell had known and never especially cared for. Zellar resented the prying.

Even so, the wine, the company, his ability to admit anything he wanted to this man he hated, were making Zellar's inhibitions slip far away and out of reach. He lurched forward, abruptly. "My father," he announced, his voice slurred in truth this time, "was a bastard. The only thing he ever cared about... the only thing" he repeated, signaling Mrell to not fill his cup completely, "was what other people thought. Their opinion was the only thing to bloody well matter to him."

Mrell nodded his face comically tragic. "And you hated him for that."

"Yes…" He was drunker on admitting these things to Mrell than he was on the wine. "Always pushing, always more tourneys…" Zellar closed his eyes, pressed his fingers to his temples. He opened his eyes again. "I was never good enough you see. No matter what I did, it was never enough. I was so glad when he finally died. I thought I was rid of that kind of thing forever." He clenched his teeth. Remarkably, he felt like weeping. "For a while it wasn't so bad… but then there was Bowie." He spat the name like a curse. "My new competitor."

Silence greeted the words, and he still felt like weeping. His rage stirred, black and hot. He would not let this horrible little man see him cry. He had already told Mrell enough. More than enough. More than he deserved to know.

He glanced up, his gaze full of poison. "What's the problem?" he hissed. "Surprised to hear me say his name?"

Mrell blinked. "A little. I didn't think you'd ever actually say that."

"And why should I?" Zellar jerked up in his seat, gesticulating wildly. "Bowie's legend has to be stopped, but it'll take years. I know, I've already tried. He can't think strategically, he barely even got the most important points of our battle with Galam right. But they all follow him!" He was getting more frustrated just thinking about it. "Well, he's an undeserving bucket of scum," Zellar roared. "Why _should_ I talk about him?"

Mrell whistled softly. "You do wrong to wound him," the general told him. "Lord Bowie is a young man, and a dangerous one, but he's honest. He's done all he could for Granseal. You should have tried to know him befo-"

"And how could I know him," shouted Zellar. "How was I supposed to get to know him? He and his little group are so tight together I couldn't even get a fingernail between them! He has more respect for you even, than for me! Was that my fault? Was Colonel Zellar ever invited to share the fun?"

Mrell only looked at the desk, and Zellar snorted in bitter satisfaction. "As I thought. Zellar was never bloody good enough for you lot either."

Mrell finally said, "I do not support Lord Bowie."

"Ohhh," drawled Zellar, "we're getting to the point now."

"He must be shown the error of his ways." Mrell nervously pulled at his moustache. "He has gone to give battle to the Galamani. The more extreme solution… I do not agree to that, by any means. Still, we agree that one thing must be done. Colonel, we will close the gate to Lord Bowie. He is on his own in this war. It will teach him."

Zellar squeezed his fist shut. "… Was this what you were sounding me out about with the Delegation?" Mrell nodded mutely, and the jealousy reared its head again in Zellar. He had not been trusted enough to be offered a role in this business until now. And yet, what Mrell proposed was treason.

_Not as good as Bowie…_His father's voice was echoing in his ears again, booming down the corridors of his memories, lacing each defeat he'd suffered with a dose of contempt. Zellar closed his eyes, willing the voice away. He was better than Bowie. He would be better than Bowie, defender of _honor. _

"Your kind is obsolete," he said, resolving to revel in his opportunity to admit even more to the corpulent old general across the table from him.

"What?"

"You heard me." Zellar laughed. "You don't count anymore, General, that's what you care about. Bowie's come along and replaced you. You don't matter as the military face of Granseal anymore. Well, I'm just that much better than you too!"

Mrell's eyes went flat, icy. "I think you've said enough, Colonel."

Zellar laughed mockingly, rising to his feet. "I'm right, though, aren't I? A shame I have to be going and seeing to those gates isn't it?"

Mrell rose to his feet as well, slightly unsteady, coming around the far side of the table to open the door for Zellar. His hand reached the handle, jerked it open and Zellar took a step forward, abruptly spinning back around, his arm outstretched. It caught Mrell in the throat, slamming the old man down to the floor, his neck broken with the one blow.

Zellar put a foot out, leaning his leg forward as he looked into the horrified eyes of General Mrell. The old man was red-faced, barely able to breathe as he stared vainly up at his murderer. "Obsolete," hissed Zellar. "You hear me, General? You're nothing! It's _me_ they're going to be listening to from now on. They'll follow me and respect me in a way they never did you or Bowie."

He reached over, picking up Mrell's flagon of wine, sloshing it slowly around. It was still somewhat full. He dropped it next to Mrell's twitching hand, moving his boots back before the wine could flow onto them. He stood there a while longer, looking at the dying general. Finally he whispered, "You should have been nicer to me, Mrell. How sad for you. It wouldn't have been hard."

He turned and swept away out of the gatehouse muttering to himself, "Drinking alone… that's how accidents happen."

* * *

The candle was nearly burnt out. Graig sighed, scratching away at the parchment in front of him. After another moment or two, he finally stopped a look of tired satisfaction on his face. It had taken time, but with each word chosen… The letter would need to be sent as quickly as it could be, but it could wait until tomorrow.

Graig slumped back in his high-backed chair, massaging his neck. He was very tired. It was late, and these plans had taken a long time to come into being.

Graig felt no regrets that he had embarked on this course. He understood the mainland much better than the rest of the council ever could; King Granseal had left it to him to deal with Thornwood for years. A show of strength was the only guarantee of safety. The mainlanders could always be intimidated by a show of strength, and then they'd negotiate better terms.

And that was the basic thing that made him feel justified in his current action. Lord Bowie's idealistic peace would destroy Granseal. The other clans would betray him, without a doubt. The Galamani were treacherous by nature and the Yeeli little more than beasts.

And if the mainlanders thought that Grans's endless wars had ended… somebody would try to suppress them all immediately, so that Grans could not rise up as a true power. Grans was tolerated because it was not a threat.

Graig sighed, shook his head, rubbed his eyes. Lord Bowie had condemned himself, and the Lord Minister did not regret that the gates would be closed against him. Lord Bowie would be proclaimed a traitor. Graig had enough circumstantial filth to destroy Bowie's character. The people would revile him as a traitor, and the Galamani would destroy him.

Master Slade had confirmed enough of what Graig had suspected that he had been able to plan for the possibility of a Galamani attack at the feast without contacting them, themselves. This next stage of the plan, however…

If anybody ever came nearer the truth than Slade had, history would revile Graig as a traitor to his country. He stood, folding his letter and sealing it. After a moment, he picked up the pen again. It was a sacrifice, but it would save Granseal. It would curtail King Granseal before he could destroy any hopes for the future. If only General Mrell had been willing to support the full scheme… Well, what Mrell didn't know was not his affair.

_If it is treason to serve one's country to the fullest, then I will gladly accept that title. _

After another moment of thought, he scrawled out on the front of the letter, _To the lords ruling Galam…_


	8. Chapter 7: Concerning Rivers

Chapter 7:

Concerning Rivers

"Word will get out," Lord Zocc warned him. "I've done what I could, certainly, to minimize the news, but they'll know within hours."

Kronos yawned, stretching out. It was good to be back in Galam. He was always uncomfortable leaving his beloved city, though he'd done it on numerous occasions. "Hours, even one hour, is enough. You need not concern yourself with that."

He was rather tired after the strain of playing his part in Granseal. It had all gone as smoothly as they had hoped, however. None of them, Lord Kazin, not even Lord Bowie had expected the abduction, and now Kronos had Sir Astral. Granseal was doomed, and the regency was assured. He could afford to be generous.

The Green Baron was less at ease. He paced about the room, absently touching various objects. "If you announced your presence immediately, you would stop Lord Paul in the midst of whatever he's been up to."

"I also give Lord Paul a chance to start moving against my presence here," Kronos said sharply. "You know he's been planning for it. If we can call the lords to convene and give Lord Paul as little time as possible to know of my presence, then…" He paused, wanting to stress the significance of this point. "Only then will I be satisfied."

Lord Zocc paced back to the door in response. "As you wish. Incidentally, I have received an updated report on the movements of Parval."

"Ah." Kronos sat up, his eyes gleaming. "So he is in fact moving across the river?"

"If he is not," Lord Zocc returned, "then his ploy is one of surpassing cleverness. It has certainly taken me in."

"Good." Kronos nearly laughed, but he remembered himself. He was a stern leader, a compassionate, but distant father figure to Galam. It was disrespectful to the people he must needs serve if he tried to empathize with them too completely. Laughter could not be his way. The Green Baron had no difficulty in supplying good humor at any rate, and he smiled now.

"It gets better," he told Kronos, pacing over to a side table now. Never still, was the Green Baron. "My men tell me that Lord Bowie has taken the field, hoping to catch us. He won't, obviously…"

Kronos grunted in satisfaction. "But with Parval moving across the river, they run smack into each other. Perfect." He took a deep breath, savoring the sense of his victory, the sensation of knowing that he was uniquely placed to preserve Galam against all odds. These were perilous times, of course. Uncertain times. But uncertainty called out for bold action, and Kronos had not been shy about supplying it. "Parval must not return from this battle."

Lord Zocc glanced at him sharply. "Is it wise to discuss this, my lord?"

Kronos fixed him with a cold stare. His long years campaigning on behalf of King Galam had taught him that one of a commander's most potent weapons was his aspect, and Kronos used that accordingly. "It must be realized. I like a defeat of our forces no better than you, but in this case, such a defeat must be. Hopefully the majority of the force will be able to regroup and retreat, but Parval must _not_ return from the river. No more than Lord Darell could return from Granseal."

Zocc grimaced. "I never thought that necessary. There was no guarantee that it would buy us any time. With the speed that Lord Bowie has mobilized, it may not have…"

"An atrocity." Kronos nodded his head. "The Gransi scum seized Lord Darell wrongfully, and we retaliated."

Zocc's eyebrows shot up. "Disgusting," he agreed mildly.

Kronos sprawled out across cushions, feeling rather abruptly tired. The Green Baron rankled him, he always had. _Presuming to know better than me on every matter that is set before us. I must admit, however, he served me well in the matter of Lord Paul. And for the moment…_ He shook his head, vexed. His plans for dealing with Lord Zocc, the Green Baron, would have to wait for another day. "Parval must die," he said, returning to his most immediate problem. "Should he be slain, every lord in Galam, save Lord Paul perhaps, will swear themselves to my regency within the hour. He may well be slain in any event, but we must make certain that there is no mistake." He pushed himself back up. "How to do it is not difficult. One of my me-"

"No." The word sounded unusually hard coming from Lord Zocc. "If you mean to do that, my lord, then I advise you to send for the headsman immediately. It will save us a great deal of trouble; I know where that road ends."

Kronos bristled. "Have a care how you address your regent, Lord Zocc. I could have your tongue out for that disrespect."

Zocc nodded, smiling. "You certainly could, especially if you were regent. Though, if you assign this task to one of your men, you won't be. And ripping out tongues won't be very popular either."

"It is my command to give, not yours. By rights."

Zocc shook his head, looking mildly disgusted. "That is the attitude that almost handed Galam to Lord Paul. Do you realize, Kronos, that when you offer nothing, most men offer nothing in return?" Kronos started to open his mouth, but Lord Zocc turned away, still talking. "Be that as it may, I am here to help you, my lord. Consider this. Even if you give this task to your most trusted man, you will be asking him to raise his blade against his own countrymen. Against _your_ own blood. Word will get out. To be sure, your man will likely only tell whomever he most trusts… and that will be someone who holds less loyalty to you than that man does. Before you know it, the word spreads through Galam." The Green Baron shook his head. "It does not serve. No one will follow you if they hear that."

"And what do _you_ suggest we do? If Parval returns alive from this battle-"

"Then we are no worse off than we ever were. We have the provocation, and you have already seized Astral. That alone should assure you of the regency."

Kronos rose to his feet. "Parval can change all that. And you know that he will. The man loves me not, if it comes to such a choice he will choose Lord Paul. You know that."

"I know that it is better to risk that, than to risk knowledge escaping. Parval may be slain anyway."

"My lords." Shaita's voice was weary, hoarse. "I can ensure that the outcome of that battle is agreeable to you. But first…" The ratman swallowed. "You promised Lord Kronos. My… patron wishes to have a free hand with him."

Kronos frowned. "You can guarantee this?"

Shaita licked his lips nervously. "I… I must, ask, my lord. I do not command this being in the sense that you command your men. By freeing it, in some degree, I have done it a favor, and so it does a favor to me in return. By giving my patron Astral, I have done another favor, and may well ask for one in turn."

Kronos nodded, his mind turning away from the matter. "That should satisfy even you, Lord Zocc. We shall leave this affair to Shaita…" He turned his gaze onto the ratman. "Though you will die, if you fail me in this," he warned.

The shaman bowed his head silently, rising slowly to his feet. "Then I… may proceed?"

"You may," Kronos affirmed, though grudgingly. He had scant love for this affair of sorcery, these arcane matters. Shaita had delivered him Astral though… "Only be certain that your… your _patron_ does not kill the old man too quickly. I wish to have words with him myself, aye, and to witness this questioning."

Shaita's face was grey. He bowed his head, though a trifle nervously, or so it seemed to Kronos. "Very good, my lord." The ratman strode quickly from the room, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Kronos sighed, stretching back out. "We should be along to see that Parval is indeed taken care of in an hour or so," he declared. "Only then can I move as we have planned with assurance."

Zocc's pacing had not ceased. The Green Baron absently picked up a dented brass goblet, fingering it. Kronos had taken that long ago, from the first Yeeli he had ever killed. It bothered him to see Zocc pawing his things, even without avarice, but he said nothing. Until he was regent in fact, he needed the Green Baron's support. And he had learned even longer ago than that, that it was wise to keep one's own counsel.

"You rely on the shaman too much," Zocc said abruptly.

_And on you not enough? Do you take me for a fool, my lord?_ "Shaita serves me well."

"Aye," Zocc muttered. He looked up, then paced to the far corner of the room. "I grant that. And he certainly wishes us to think so."

_Us. Not you, but us he says. _

"But," Zocc continued, his face troubled, "what do we know of the man? He has come but recently to Galam and his past is all unknown. I dislike the taste of that. What reason has he to serve so ably, so well, if he has this mysterious patron he alludes to?" Zocc shook his head ominously. "You would be wise to put your trust elsewhere, my lord."

Kronos opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Loath as he was to admit it, he knew that the Green Baron gave him good counsel in this. "What do you suggest?"

"Galam is your mortar, my lord. You must make your ties here stronger. If you were to make your peace with Lord Chelsted, mayhaps…"

Kronos's brows shot up. _Lord Paul. So that is the way of it. _"General Tiberius would still be my staunch foe," he said carefully, leaving the direct question of Lord Paul momentarily to the side. "It changes nothing."

"It changes everything," Zocc disagreed. "General Tiberius cannot move against you if he has no support amongst the high lords and their personal guards. You have what, but thirty men, my lord? Aside from Lord Paul, most of the others have even fewer. Together, you would have enough to cow even Tiberius. And he knows that without Lord Paul's patronage, he cannot hope to stand against you."

"Lord Paul is not trustworthy." The objection came out more sharply than Kronos had meant it to, the old memories beginning to stir.

"Nor is he stupid. He would like nothing better than to believe himself in alliance with you, it removes many obstacles from his field."

Kronos could feel his gorge rising, but a regent must be reasonable, he knew. "How would this become a reality?"

Zocc shrugged. "Lord Paul is as yet unwed. An ambitious man needs a wife, and you, my lord Kronos, have a daughter…"

Kronos was honestly surprised at that suggestion. _Chelsted's creature_, he thought even as a stream of other memories invaded him. _The bold laughing boy with the cruel eyes who had mocked his grandfather's lordship… the rival who had soundly defeated the soldier's son… the man who had refused to recommend the legion to King Galam… the man who had always taken everything first… the man who would offer peace to the Gransi… _"No," he rasped, the word hoarse.

Zocc arched a brow at him. "You must wed the lords to your cause if you hope to rule…"

"I shall," Kronos declared in a ringing voice, trying to mask his moment of weakness. "Parval shall do it for me."

Zocc's mouth twisted bitterly downward. "As you command, my lord." The Green Baron had finally taken a seat, but he rocked incessantly back and forth. "In that case, perhaps it might be prudent to consider again the matter of the north. I hold that Tiberius-"

"Such discussions must wait until I am regent in fact," he interrupted. "For now, there are other things we must do. Let us attend to Shaita."

Zocc stood, shaking his head. "Whatever my lord regent commands," he murmured.

---

The morn was crisp, fresh. A breeze had set in, and Parval removed his helmet, the better to feel it. It was a good omen, he decided. The last time he had been on active duty and there had been a breeze, such as this… He shook his head, feeling the weight of his hair, loose from the confines of the helmet.

The last time had been that very first campaign in which he had won renown. He had lost his horse, nearly been separated from his unit, but he'd cut through the Yeeli to rejoin his commander, even engaging in single combat with the Yeeli leader. He remembered that day very well. It was too far away now. It was all too far gone.

Galam had fallen on mournful times. His eyebrows crinkled with displeasure, as he considered the weakness of Galam. Bah! He spat, angrily. Had he truly been the only commander not blind enough to see that Galam could not have won? The devils had overrun them, what chance; therefore, did they stand against the Yeeli? The king had been old and failing even before that and as for the younger generation…

_Kronos…_ He shook his head sorrowfully. A weak man. A weak leader. Galam had fallen on hard times. Slowly, heavily, Parval walked forward, through the camp. The days of honor may have left momentarily, but they could be restored. The Gransi had dealt them an insult, and the Yeeli still lived. It was a crushing victory that was required now.

That was where Lord Paul Chelsted was wrong. Lord Paul saw many things clear enough; Parval admired that. But not even Lord Paul saw the reason of this poisonous defeat, this noxious weed growing in Galam. Not even Lord Paul saw things half so clear as Parval did.

They had been challenged, and that meant that battle must be joined. The devils were beyond their reach, and Lord Paul was right to see that Kronos's dream of attacking the Gransi head on was foolish. But a forced march to take the city of Granseal… Ah, even that was risky. And yet, had not Parval braved every risk, fought against all the odds to come to this point?

"My lord! My lord Parval!"

The white haired commander looked up. One of his scouts. "Aye?"

The man knelt before him, as befit a scout of the Galamani army. "My lord," he said respectfully. "I fear the safe arrival of the Delegation is marred by worse news."

His ears pricked up. "A pursuit party." The scout nodded. Parval shook his head sadly. It was not difficult to guess. "How much treachery must we endure?" He looked into the sky, even as the scout murmured agreeing commiseration, and he saw only sorrow, only the bleakness of this new hour, this new dawn. A tragic age had fallen upon Galam. The insult must not go unpunished, yet how?

"We ride," he declared, abruptly, swinging around, striding purposefully forward. Behind him, he heard the scout gasp in surprise.

In but a moment, the young man had caught up to him. "My lord, is that not foolhardy? To cross the Rhyl…"

Parval said naught. Another corrupted young man. Corrupted by the lies of the Gransi and Lord Paul's foolish dreams of peace. _Still, that is preferable to being corrupted by the foolishness of mine own dear nephew. _What was an age like this, where only one old commander remained with the foresight and vigor to see what must be done? That was a tale to make men weep, but Parval knew that things could no longer be delayed.

"Who commands the pursuit?"

The scout swallowed, betraying the name before he even spoke it. "Bowie. Bowie the Butcher of Granseal."

_An honor to cross blades with such a man. _ Parval was only sorry that it was not that fat fool, Mrell. Bloody Mrell, he had been called in his prime. But a man could not ask for everything. "We ride," he declared a second time, the iron of command in his voice. His bearing was noble, and his voice was confident, secure. He knew that would be enough. It always had been.

The scout ran forward, in front of him, his face pale. "My lord," he cried. "To cross the Rhyl in violation of the Gransi borders, now is…"

"It has been too long," cried Parval. "Too long since we could seek honor. This is not a contest of borders, this is honor! The pursuit comes to us, openly, and we must punish Granseal. And then, yes, reaffirm with them that they shall always be our friends. For this is the way of a true man! This blood feud will end." Parval nodded gently. "Indeed it shall… after we have shamed them in battle, then when the falseness of the Yeeli is revealed…" He sighed mournfully. "Too long it has been, but no longer do we wait. We ride."

Kronos's hopeless war or Lord Paul's misguided peace? Why bother? Parval slipped the helmet back on. There was a better way. A Granserian way.

---

"We've been going at this nearly two hours, now," Sarah reminded him. "Nearly two hours, Bowie! What do we do when we reach the Rhyl?"

He averted his gaze from hers, his jaw set. "I had not considered that." _Heedless_, Graig's voice whispered in his ears. He had been hasty in gathering his friends, yes. Hasty in setting out to save Sir Astral, yes. He had been hasty before that too, in leading Granseal's forces against King Galam. _He told me there were no crimes when you are the only one left, and I wept. Well, I am through with weeping. Astral, I swear on my sword you shall be freed._

It was time to stop counting on his luck, and it was time to stop lingering on his failings. Mayhaps he had been truly the loneliest man in Grans for a few moments back in the council's solar, but he was no longer. It was not how he failed that mattered, it was what he did. And who wouldn't have felt alone, closeted with Mrell and Graig?

"Are you even listening to me?!" Bowie turned back towards Sarah, his brow furrowed in apologetic confusion.

"Sorry," he started to say, but she talked straight through him, sounding angrier by the moment.

"You can hardly have a strategy to be going over if you hadn't thought of the Rhyl, which, I might mention, we can even see from here! Invading Galam's sovereign territory with the strength we have _now_, when they've obviously planned everything out up to now i-"

He cut her off, his guilt starting to rise again. "Dammit Sarah, what do you expect me to do? Do you take me for Graig?"

A strange expression crossed her face, and her mouth opened silently. Then her lips twisted sharply down. "I…"

Bowie swallowed. _Dammit, I've got to stop doing that. _"I'm…" The words were hard to find. His own emotions were still so raw. With a sigh, he brought his hand to her chin, raising her gaze back up. "I'm sorry," he said as gently as he could. "I didn't mean to shut you out. It's just…" He brought his hand back to his own face, brushing the hair off of his forehead. "Once we properly reach the Rhyl…" Even now, the words stuck in his throat. His shoulders slumped. "We'll retreat," he concluded lamely.

"Bowie," Sarah said, and her eyes still had some of that strange expression in them. "Why don't we do something when this is all over? Just you and me… and Chester and Jaha again, like it was?"

_It can never be like it was._ The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back. He felt a little sad. Had he really grown that far apart from his oldest friends? He laughed, belatedly realizing that a silence had opened up. "I'd… like that." It was only half a lie. _And there are no crimes…_

"Bowie!" He looked up sharply, as Chester came galloping in, his face tight, guarded. "We have company."

Frowning, Bowie followed the sweep of Chester's hand. He didn't need to look twice. "Galamani troops!" He swore savagely. "A trap… I've fallen into a fucking trap!" He shook his head, determinedly. Graig's voice was whispering through his mind. _Heedless…_

_Dammit! I can still turn this around, so shut up! _Politics may not have been his forte, but he could do Granseal… the king, his friends, Astral, even Graig good here. "How spread out are the rest of us?"

Chester gripped his spear tightly. "I left Jaha, Kazin and Sheela to hold the south bank. The others should still be resting."

Bowie frowned, his tactical mind coming to the fore. The south bank was an essential spot to hold if they hoped to do as much as repel the enemy. The question was, were just three enough to hold it while he gathered the rest of his swords? _Those three_, he mused_ may be just enough. Kazin to keep the enemy mages and archers from gaining too much headway from afar while Jaha cuts down any that approach… Sheela to back them both with healing as needed…_

"Leave them," he said curtly, resisting the tug of friendship on his heart. "We'll approach from the east, and hopefully catch the force full in the river."

---

Kazin conjured another ball of fire, wondering how long he could keep this up. "Got him," he muttered as one of the archers fell into the river's embrace, already dead. "Jaha," he shouted, "that one, to the left…!"

The dwarf was already moving though. Kazin nearly bit his tongue. _I have to stop doing that. Trying to take command where I'm clearly not qualified… I'm no hero like Jaha… or Bowie._

His thoughts increasingly dark he released another pent up blaze spell. It took an archer directly opposite him in the face.

"Sheela," he heard Jaha scream. "Help!"

Kazin's brow puckered in blank incomprehension for a long moment as he stared at the battlefield. Jaha fighting a soldier, but he'd tripped was on his back…

In another moment he realized exactly what was wrong. Instinct more than anything else brought his staff up to meet the sword swinging in at his head. The jarring sensation in his arm shocked him. Gods, it hurt to have to swing weapons about in blocks!

The soldier facing him now brought his sword in again, low. Kazin blocked it, but lost his balance. As he regained it, the sword point came up to his throat. The soldier smiled grimly. "Do you yield, Gransi?"

He stared into the Galamani's face, facing a storm of memories at the simple designation 'Gransi.' How many people had insulted him for the simple fact of not being born in the city? How many of his friends made that separation from him, in their minds? How often did Sarah make that separation from him?

He threw his staff at the soldier's face, fueled by a sudden anger and despair. The man jerked slightly backward, startled at the seemingly futile gesture, and Kazin desperately grabbed at the blade, trying to wrestle the point away from his throat. The soldier was stronger than he was, though not by much, he started straining back. Kazin's grip slipped, and he found himself clutching the blade of the weapon. "Die," snarled the soldier, straightening his arm for the final thrust.

With few options left, he deliberately fell backwards, ignoring the deep gashes in his hands. As he hit the ground, the soldier started to adjust his trajectory, but just missed Kazin's neck and shoulder, instead stabbing his blade into the ground just above him.

"No," Kazin rasped, summoning a blaze of fire and releasing it just into the man's face. "You die."

Abruptly deeply tired, Kazin bent his knees and rose to his feet. It took an eternity of just a few seconds. He vaguely noticed the blood on his hands and robes, and when he managed finally to look around him, all was chaos.

Bowie and the others had attacked, catching the Galamani forces in midstream. The huge armored knight that commanded them had a spear sticking out of his side… ah yes, and there was Chester. Bowie had been clever about it, putting his more mobile units in front, while the rest struck where they were needed. And there was Sarah…

Jaha was still fighting off a small contingent of enemies, further across the river than the rest of the Galamani forces. Kazin vaguely realized that he was watching some of the best use of a dwarven shield he'd ever seen, but he was too tired to care. There was something vaguely niggling the back of his mind, but it took him another moment to identify what was wrong. _Sheela._

His gaze raked the south bank, trying to locate her. Jaha wouldn't have noticed with his hands full, and Kazin taking all that damn time to kill that single soldier… He spotted her. Another enemy had soldier had somehow gotten away from Jaha's axe, and was holding her head down in the waters of the Rhyl.

With a sigh, he seized up his fallen staff and directly approached the back of the enemy soldier. He was far too tired for subtlety and it wouldn't have mattered anyway; Sheela was struggling enough that the Galamani's attention was fully occupied.

He could have cast another blaze spell, but he was starting to run low on magical energy, and besides that would have been more likely to hurt Sheela too. He raised his arms and took a single strong blow at the base of the man's skull. The soldier stiffened and fell to the ground.

Sheela sputtered weakly and fell more fully into the river. Kazin sighed again. _My cursed luck_ he thought _is that I save people who need the saving._ He dropped the staff again, absently noting the deep stinging in his hands. They were slick with blood. _Maybe Sheela can handle that once she can breathe properly again. _

With a final sigh, Kazin leant down, and seized hold of her around the waist. She was almost as tall as he was, so he certainly wasn't going to carry her length-wise. He grunted. She was quite a bit heavier than she looked. "All that muscle," he wheezed. Master monks trained, of course, to be able to use their bodies as weapons.

With another grunt, he managed to flop her out of the water and across his shoulder. He almost fell over himself, but managed to steady his balance. He took about three strides further from the river, and rolled her down onto the ground, unceremoniously. She made a vague whimpering noise. With a sigh, Kazin rolled her over so that she wasn't breathing into the dirt. He promptly groaned again.

The armor that master monks wear is light and flexible which makes it splendid for agility, but offers little in the way of practical defense. He eyed the ruins of Sheela's dress with something less than favor. It looked as though before the Galamani had managed to overcome her, he'd had to slash her a few times first. She was practically naked from the waist up, with a few wounds on her upper torso to boot.

Kazin glanced back at the raging battle. Jaha seemed to have the contingent at the southern end pretty well stymied for the moment, and Kazin supposed that he probably should do _something_ to preserve what was left of Sheela's modesty before rushing off to a battle that didn't seem to particularly need him.

With a grunt of annoyance, he turned looking for a convenient corpse. The nearest dead Galamani was several meters away, though, and waterlogged besides. Getting that livery off would have been impossible and… Kazin sighed, and looked down at his own robes with something less than favor. With a dark shrug, he slipped out of the robe, and stood there in nothing but his loincloth, looking awkwardly at Sheela.

"Cold," she muttered, her eyes vague and unfocused. Kazin shook his head unhappily, and draped his rust-colored robe across Sheela's breasts. He turned and trudged away, surveying the battle grimly. He certainly wasn't going to try to arrange things more neatly than that; it took care of the main problem and anything further might have been very awkward to explain.

The battle was still being waged, but it looked as things had turned pretty decisively in their direction. So long as Kazin and Jaha could hold the south bank, the enemy force was cut off from any means of breaking through their forces and that was all that really matt…

_So long as the south bank is held…_ There was a strong roaring in his ears. He remembered the way he had said to Sarah, the night of the feast, _"Bowie honors me…_" That honor had left a bitter taste in his mouth and as for this one… _This is more Jaha's honor than mine_, he reflected. _And it was Chester who granted it rather than Bowie. _

His shoulders set. He could still do something useful, something else. Sweeping the field with his eye, a determination rising in his chest, Kazin's gaze fixed on an enemy centaur somewhat further out into the Rhyl than his fellows.

Not quite certain where he had found the will, Kazin took off running towards the bank of the river. As he reached it, he made an awkward soaring leap. The gods were good, and he landed precisely where he wanted to be, on the enemy centaur's back.

"Kazin!" He heard Jaha's boyish voice as though from a great distance. "Wait! What are you doing?! We have t-"

"_You_ hold the bloody bank," he roared. "Muddle," he commanded the wildly bucking centaur, raising his hand sharply. A vague unfocused look spread into the centaur's eyes, and it calmed somewhat. Kazin tightened his knees against it, oddly aware of what a ridiculous sight he must make with no robe.

The centaur would be a bit unpredictable now, but Kazin was confident that he could command it to at least some extent. "Those men," he said, pointing at the archers, safe on the northern bank. "Attack th-" he gritted his teeth, clutching his right arm which had an arrow in it. "Attack them."

The centaur started to gallop off, but more shafts came whistling his way. "Blaze," cried Kazin, setting off the largest conflagration he could summon in mere moments, hoping it would provide enough cover. It did not. An arrow punched through the chest of the muddled centaur. As it fell, it bucked again, and Kazin jerked backwards, at least two more arrows in him. The water of the Rhyl splashed him, cold and strong. He could feel himself sinking into it.

"Sheela!" Jaha's voice rang out, just barely in the range of Kazin's hearing. "Sarah! Somebody, help! Kazin, hang in there! We need help!"

He thought he could hear Jaha splashing towards him. _No_, Kazin thought, abruptly resentful. He had been unhappy, with Jaha, he remembered. He did not want the dwarf to spoil that now by displaying finer qualities. It would destroy everything. _And not Sarah,_ he thought. _Not now. Not… like this._ The thoughts were becoming heavier, slower. Harder. A gauntleted hand closed about Kazin's throat, slowly lifting him out of the water.

---

"My lord," Shaita, rasped nervously. "Please, my lord." The ratman glanced behind his shoulder at the small side room where Kronos and Zocc had closeted themselves.

The voice sounded, dusty. "I asked not to be disturbed."

Shaita licked his lips. "Please my lord… a single boon. I have granted the favor you asked."

Kronos glanced at Zocc, wondering what the Green Baron would make of it all. For once, the man was quiet. There was a somber, thoughtful expression on his face. Kronos was ill at ease in this place, this subterranean landscape beneath the castle.

He strode forward abruptly, as Shaita dithered about, still begging in that insipid way he had. "What my man means to say," Kronos said in a harsh voice, carefully putting stress on the 'my' "is that we'll take the old man back unless you can guarantee the death of a man called Parval for us."

The… presence, for that was the only true word for it, seemed to pause, although indeed, Kronos could not see this patron that Shaita claimed was there. After another moment, the air approximately three meters above him started to condense, and swirl, harden and form, and eventually, a shape was there.

Kronos sucked in a startled breath. The figure hovered in the air and a sense of power emanated from it. The figure's face was pale, dominated by a great curling beard and a blue faded hat. The dress was elaborate. "An arrogant man," the figure said, the voice still dusty. "But… honest." The figure laughed abruptly. "For the courage of this moment, Kronos of Galam, I shall grant you your favor. Parval will not live. Now go!"

Kronos nodded shakily, feeling a compulsion to obey that he could not recall ever before feeling. Speeding away with as much haste as he could summon, Kronos felt some of his confidence starting to return as he strode up the stone steps. He glanced behind him, and saw both Zocc and Shaita following, similarly quiet.

"Zocc," he commanded, feeling the need to reassert the truth that he in fact was the authority in Galam, "we have a suitable guarantee. Call the lords together. Upon the hour, our plans shall reach fruition."

The Green Baron nodded wordlessly, and sped past Kronos up the steps. Kronos took a moment, placing his hand on the stone wall, still slightly overwhelmed. After another second or so, he shook his head and resumed his path, his shoulders set back, his face stern. _It will be as it should be, finally, Father. I shall make it all right. _

---

Kazin was dangling high in the air, staring down at the great armored man, commander of the Galamani forces. The voice beneath the helmet was deep, but oddly weak sounding. "You fool. You'll die yet. The bank shall be ours."

With weak desperation, Kazin kicked ineffectually at the armored legs of the man, even as the gauntleted hand started to tighten on his throat. "B…" he rasped. The hand tightened harder.

"No!" Jaha lept forward, his axe swinging in hard. It smashed against the commander's other hand, and the broadsword he had been drawing went flipping out into the Rhyl. Recoiling slightly, the commander started to turn, but he was weighed down by his plate armor and Jaha's axe struck true again, scoring a hit on the side.

Kazin could feel the grip on his throat receding. Air was returning to him. Jaha would probably not last long though… Kazin looked up, and he could see Luke sweeping in, sword outstretched. The birdman struck the commander hard in the back. They were doing solid damage, but the commander's armor was protecting him. He might be able to hold on long enough for support troops to reach him, and if that happened… It had to be stopped.

Struggling weakly, Kazin whispered. "B…" His throat was too dry, still too constricted. He tried again. "Bl…" With sheer force of will, he pictured Jaha and Luke slain. It helped, but not much. He imagined Sarah, a cold blade in her heart. The word tore out of his throat then. "Blaze!"

He'd aimed the spell downward, at the water the commander was trudging through. The water bubbled ominously for a moment, and then the Galamani commander screamed. With a howl of pure pain, he sank to his knees, dropping Kazin with a loud splash. The commander raised his head to the heavens, howling in agony as his plate armor melted against his flesh.

Kazin struggled to get up, but his strength was all gone. He heard the wrenching screech of metal on metal and supposed, vaguely, that Jaha must have ended it. Or perhaps Luke.

Kazin could not have said how long he lay half-submerged in the waters of the Rhyl using all the strength he had left to keep himself from being swept along with the current. It seemed like an eternity, but he supposed it could have only been a few seconds.

A hand roughly seized his elbow, propping him up. He looked dazedly into Jaha's excited face. "Come on, Kaz," he said, not unkindly. "Let's get you back to shore, and healed up."

"Battle," he mumbled questioningly.

Jaha laughed with exultation. "I won't say that you didn't worry me there, but what you did was incredible!" He laughed again. "Would you believe it, Kaz old buddy? We're the heroes of the Rhyl!"

---

Kronos looked around the throne room, a smile threatening to break past his iron control. All the lords of Galam were assembled, great and small. Even Tiberius was there, looking as gloomy as ever. He could already feel the heady sense of success threatening to overwhelm him.

He took a moment, straightened himself, and then strode purposefully down the center of the room until he stood in front of the throne. Naturally he did not sit in it, only the king or regent could do that, but that he stood before it was an important symbolic gesture. He met the narrowed gaze of Lord Paul Chelsted, and allowed the corners of his mouth to perk up for just a moment.

Then he cleared his throat, and began, a somber expression on his face. "My lords of Galam," he began, for it began with them and ended with them as well, "all men know me as the trueborn son and heir of General Koroll, a great hero of the last wars against the Yeeli. I speak to you now truly, as the man who went to our so-called allies in Granseal. My lords, only treachery met us there! They feasted us well, and when they believed us lulled with wine, they seized Lord Darell, doubtless planning to take the rest of us as well. We retaliated, we fled, for what could we do in the enemy stronghold?"

His blood roared in his ears as he surveyed each set of eyes suspiciously. Thus far, he was making the obvious pitch for control, and the guarded expressions of the lords might mean anything. _What poison has Lord Paul been spreading behind my back? _

"My lords…" His voice broke for good effect. "We were pursued. By Bowie of Granseal, the man who cut down our king!" He was picking up some interest now. Kronos plunged full ahead. "Pursued, my lords," he cried. "By a bloody butcher and his handpicked friends. Gransi butchers riding with their Parmecian friends. Gransi scum who would sell out our proud history to the mainland. The same man who had seized young Darell, who had cut down our king, was now pursuing us! We had taken a hostage in Sir Astral…" Ah yes. That had them murmuring. "And they meant to cut us down! And I remind you, my lords, the Gransi betrayed us before! They murdered our king. Through all these years we thought of them as friends, why then did we never fell the Yeeli?" He was starting to rasp with passion now. Lord Zocc caught his eyes, a wild look in them as he shook his head.

_It's beyond your control, Zocc. I play for keeps. _He took a savage pleasure in that. "The Gransi," he gasped, nearly overcome himself at this point. "The Gransi were always secretly in league with our enemy, and they cut down our king. How many of us lost personally to them in that war? Their humiliating peace settlement takes how much more than just pride from us? How much gold, would they have demanded? How many of our daughters, our swords? How many hostages to good behavior? How much, _for traitors_?!" He broke off, breathing heavily. "And now, my lords… My beloved uncle, Parval, one of the greatest heroes of our times… He was performing routine duty on the Rhyl. And when we fled through Bowie's fingers, he cut down my uncle! An old man, my lords! He violated our borders at Rhyl, to slay one of the greatest of our men."

The murmuring was louder now. Kronos knew it was time. "Well, my lords, we've had enough kneeling now! I am the blood of my father and my uncle, my grandfather and others, heroes all to Galam! I am the blood of the Galamani that have always bled and fought for our honor! We offered the serpent a chance to make good, and it struck! First our king, now Lord Darell, now my own beloved uncle…" The roaring was in his ears. "I mean to protect the honor that we've lost, in the names of all the fallen, our king and my uncle foremost of all. My lords of Galam, who stands with me?"

At that moment, Kronos could not have said which was more satisfying; the sound of dozens of swords being drawn as one or the look on Lord Paul Chelsted's face.


	9. Chapter 8: Matters of Pride

Chapter 8

Matters of Pride

Lord Paul Chelsted stared at the cracked, dingy ceiling of the brothel. He had failed utterly. It wounded his pride, even now. Lord Zocc the Green Baron had played him, and Kronos had succeeded before his very eyes. And what had Lord Paul's response to that been? He had fled. Fled the failure, fled the castle, fled his allies, fled it all away, into Nikki's arms.

It had rained throughout the night, and he had not even bothered to take his cloak with him. No, he had ridden through the rain-soaked streets, heedless of the water, wanting only to reach the brothel. To reach Nikki's arms. Here, at least he was wanted. Here at least…

She was still sleeping. Restlessly, he turned away from her. It always filled him with a deep shame, afterwards. Every morning after… _I am a man. Is it not natural that I should need such comfort? That I should take it? _Nikki was the only one who never judged him. The only one who had ever accepted Lord Paul Chelsted as he was. Why then, the shame?

_Dammit, I'm like a lovesick boy. She's a whore… it's my gold she loves, not my cock. _He wasn't certain if he believed that though. He knew that he didn't want to. Nikki was always so… He sat up restlessly, consciously resisting looking at her sleeping face. _She's what I pay her to be. _

He pushed the covers off, paced over to the open window. He stared at the dull grey sky. Mayhaps the rains were not over yet. He glanced over his shoulder at her again, and his resistance melted. _It always does. _The thought was not as bitter as it should have been, nor was it angry. It never was.

It was not beauty that she had, it was not beauty that sparked this sickness devouring his soul, his shame, his honor. Nikki was compelling, brilliant, maddeningly attractive, but she was not beautiful. She was just taller than he himself, her glossy auburn hair was short. In his haste, he'd jerked the thin coverlet off of her. He stood there, watching her breathe softly, studying the rise and fall of her breasts.

He turned away again. _I should leave, now. _Instead, he paced moodily over towards the rickety wooden table in the corner of the room. He lifted the flagon of wine, feeling the weight of it, sloshing what liquid remained around. He had always hated to see the wine there. It was a custom of the house, he knew, and probably a custom of every other godforsaken brothel anyway. _Those are worse though, because they do not have her. _

Lord Paul Chelsted never touched the wine when he came to visit Nikki. He was never there strictly for the bloody _custom_ as it was called anyway. Well… He was. Of course he was. But he was really there to see her. To talk to her, to be comforted by her, to sleep with her, and yes, he supposed, to love her. His hand tightened threateningly against the jug. Yes, he came to here to love her. That was a mistake, a weakness, an irrational impulse, but he had given into it, hadn't he?

And still, always the wine that he never drank was here. The wine that her other patrons drank. His jaw trembled. He would have liked nothing better than to crush the flagon in his hand, but Nikki was still sleeping.

_Gods, Chelsted. What a fool you are. _His hands shook a little as he fumbled with the earthenware cup on the table. If others could do it, why not he? She had never let _him_ do anything else for her, damn her. One cup. Just one cup, for courage.

Hands still shaking, he raised the vessel to his lips. The slightest drop splashed onto his tongue, and he started trembling violently. He had never needed the wine before. It wasn't as though he was just a bloody patron of the house, he was there to… He crushed the cup with an abrupt, enraged squeeze. "Fuck!"

He swore softly, the earthenware shards cutting into his palm. The wine stung against his blood. His mood increasingly dark, he strode over to the window, staring out at the foggy streets of Galam. With a sigh, he fumbled for his cock; Lord Paul Chelsted entertained no notions of using the disgusting privy of this place. Once had been quite sufficient for him.

_Damn you Kronos_, he thought, but even that lacked the heat that it should have had. Kronos's victory, Tiberius's need of a leader, Zocc's treachery, Galam itself… what did any of it matter next to her? How could he focus on any of that, with Nikki before him, the problem she presented to him?

_Dammit, she's a whore. Galam needs me, more than ever now, and I ride off to a night with a whore. _He shook the last droplets off, and cradled his head. Gods help him, but he would ask her again. He would have to ask her again. In an abrupt rage, he swung away from the window, shielding his eyes.

_Another failure of my father. He should have provided for this; he should have made some kind of alliance for the family. I wouldn't be here if not for him! _With a sigh that contained a little more purpose to it, he looked at the bed again. Nikki was yawning lightly, stretching a little. His heart melted in a shameful daze.

He swallowed. "N…" He couldn't even say it. The very sight of her, awake again, after the night they had spent together brought a lump to his throat.

She looked up, her grey-green eyes welcoming. "Paul." She smiled lazily, sitting up. The coverlets slipped off of her. Lord Paul Chelsted felt some interest stirring between his legs, but he didn't encourage it.

"It's cold over here," he declared abruptly. _Now why did I say that? Bloody pointless…_

She smiled. "It's a cold morning, that's an open window, and you're naked. You should expect it."

Her charm, her sincere good humor, it only served to blacken his mood. He strode abruptly back to the table, studying the wine. "Does it always have to be like this?" he finally asked, hoarsely. "Always this bloody flagon? I never drink the damn stuff. You don't."

He didn't look at her. He didn't have to. He knew that her face would be pained, but gentle. He couldn't face that. "Yes," she told him, her voice soft.

He stood there, staring. "Oily stuff," he said at last. His voice was thick with grief, though, giving the lie to his attempts at banality. "It could have been beautiful here once. My father would have liked that. A beautiful brothel." He snorted. "I suppose a fool loves a foolish thing." He spun around, looked at her. Her face was interested, engaged. But her eyes still stung of pity. He did not have to ask after the cause. He could feel the tears stinging his eyes. _Dammit. She's a whore… but mine, nonetheless. _

"You never speak of your mother," Nikki finally said. His mouth tightened. There was no apology in that, no apology for not refusing the wine. For not refusing the rest. _Is there something so imperfect about this union, Chelsted you bloody fool? _

Lord Paul Chelsted shrugged, crossed the last few paces to the bed and sat down. He clamped a hand on her left breast. It was small, but he liked the firmness of it. "She was just some woman. Most of them are."

She sat up, and his palm slid away. '"Some woman?"'

Lord Paul sighed. "I suppose that was in bad taste. I apologize." He rose again, more restless than ever. "If you coul…" He bit back the words. It was always too much. Life demanded too much. "And when a man encounters that truth, he builds mountains," he murmured, wanting little more than to fall to his knees and weep.

"Paul?"

He turned back towards her and he looked at her. Really looked at this woman he coveted. Her skin was soft, but her palms were still hardened by the realities of lower class life. Her face was lightly scattered with pimples, her hair was short, almost mannish in appearance. Her body was lanky, yes, but it was warm. "Nikki." His voice was hoarse, hoarser than he had ever heard it. How many countless times had it come to this? How many times had he done this, slid his hands around her waist, reached up to give her breast a squeeze? How many times? And did she ever truly enjoy his touch? Or was she just a whore?

"Nikki," he repeated, his ardor for her being replaced by another hunger. He blinked back the tears fiercely. _Oh please, why? Why must everything always happen to me?_ He approached the bed, his hands trembling again. Always this dammed trembling afflicted him in her presence. How many hundreds of times must he have started to ask this question in its different ways? This was a weakness. But Lord Paul Chelsted didn't care. He sat down beside her, his hands coming to cup her face. That lovely, yearning, treacherous face! "Please," he almost whispered.

He stared helplessly into her green-grey eyes. "Come back with me."

Nikki stared back at him, a sickly pallor slowly creeping through her cheeks. She slowly moved a little back on the bed, and his fingers came away from his face. They were cold now. "I've told you before," she finally said. Her voice was little more than a whisper, but he could still hear the hurt in it.

"Damn it," he burst out, "but why?" The pleading whine in his voice would have made him flinch under any other circumstance. The childishness of the question reverberated around in his skull for a moment. What need had Lord Paul Chelsted of debasing himself? _But Nikki is not one of them, blast it. And it isn't as though I don't have enough bloody coin to keep her. Enough for any bloody whore._ "And I'm asking you," he said, making an effort to keep the trembling from entering his voice. "What does it matter, Nikki? No one will…" His lips twisted as he searched for the right phrase to come to him. "No one will hold it against _you._ More than half the lords at court keep bedwarmers; it's me they'll blame."

"Bedwarmers," Nikki repeated, her voice bitter. "Bedwarmers, whores, courtesans… cunts in the end."

His hand twitched. The objection was nearly on his tongue, that that was not the way of it between them, there was much more than the sex… He looked away. "You are making me beg, Nikki. It is not mete that I should beg."

"And is that all this is?" she burst out, rising to her full, magnificent height. Despite himself, Lord Paul could not keep himself from looking back at her. His mouth went dry at the sight of her beauty, her body. "Your pride?" It took him a moment to understand the question. A slow flush crept up his neck. "You want me to come back to court with you… as a matter of pride, of cocks and cunts." She strode over to him, her hand sliding down and with one quick squeeze she had him hard. Rubbing herself up against him, she breathed, "Is this all that I am to you?"

His lips quivered. "Stop it." No words had ever been harder than that.

'"Stop it,"' she mocked him. "That's not what _he _says," she sneered giving him another squeeze, "and he's the one talking about this."

Lord Paul Chelsted abruptly rose to his feet. "Enough," he snapped. "What matters all of this to you? I have ask… no, I've begged you and you give me nothing more than excuses. If there's any shallow influence here, it's none of my making." The words he meant to say caught in his throat. _Is it enough that I love you? That I've always loved you despite myself? That you're perfect? Or is it that I'm not? _

Why had she always insisted on receiving other custom, after Lord Paul Chelsted had found her? She was at least attached to him, and he had the gold that she would not go wanting. Why? "If you cast me off," he said, trying to mask his pain, "then I renounce you."

Her eyes softened, but her mouth was still hard. "And if you would do that now… then why not later, after you'd bored of me?"

He nearly choked at the suggestion. "_Bore_-"

"What would I do, after months as your concubine? There is no sorrier sight than a cast off whore, Paul."

"You fear that I would abandon you?" His voice was incredulous. "I…" he took a half step backwards. "Why?" _Is it because… I failed? I am not the Lord Regent, she would have heard that, damn her. I…_ The vulnerability of her questions was too raw, next to his weaknesses. But why else refuse him? _Because, Chelsted, you bloody fool, she's a whore and she's laughing at you. _

"When it's your pride talking to me," she flung back at him, "why wouldn't I?"

Lord Paul shook his head slowly, trying to conceal his shakiness. After a moment, he sank down into the single chair in the room. He had made a reasonable enough request, and she had refused him. What had he said to so enrage her? How was he being… prideful? _I did not truly speak of my weakness whereas she… Dammit, man! _He clenched his fist. _I have given her reason enough, and she wants me to beg. To kneel before her. If those reasons are not sufficient, then why should I bloody well do so? _

But he could not just let her refuse him. He had betrayed his upbringing, by coming here. By loving her. He had betrayed himself, his wits, the only gift the gods had bestowed upon him, by loving her. He had betrayed all his responsibilities by coming here now, to ask her. She had already forced him to beg, and she had still… He jerked to his feet, his fist clenched so hard that he was gouging his already open wound. Then he relaxed his grip, with an effort.

He fumbled with his discarded clothes for a moment, searching out a gold coin. Clumsily, he tossed it over to the bed. "If it's the practicalities that are bothering you… then think on that."

Trembling openly, he gathered up his bundle of clothing, sweeping out of the room. He heard her once. "Paul…" He did not turn back. _I will not beg. I will not._ He stalked down the stairs, too angry to be concerned about the stares, some appreciative and others merely curious, the various occupants of the front room shot him, in his naked state. He dressed quickly, throwing an angry coin at the counter for the mistress of the house.

He stepped out into the cobbled streets of Galam, and the wind picked up. Within minutes it was raining and he had at least a twenty minute ride back to the castle. _The gods,_ he thought blackly, _are laughing at me now. _

He folded his arms against the damp chill in the air, looking back for a moment at the brothel. _Well. So much for that. If the foolish woman cannot see that it's for her own good…_ His eyes jerked away from their morbid contemplation.

The chill was setting deeply into his bones. He shuddered. _The chill in the castle will be worse. Kronos's now… _A dark surge of anger ate through him. It was not _jealousy_ that he felt, considering the rise of Kronos. That was far too… petty and insignificant a response for a great man such as Lord Paul Chelsted to feel, not to mention completely unnecessary. No, it was not jealousy. Dismay, perhaps. Alarm certainly.

Kronos was an appalling man and his policies would likely follow suit. _And there is no reason that he should be Lord Regent, dammit. What did he offer you, Green Baron? What could he possibly have offered that you would not have had from the hand of the greatest man this realm has ever known? _

It must be destiny. Lord Paul had to believe that. The gods had sent him his comet, so they must have meant this ascension. _But Kronos will oversee the death of Galam, if he's unchecked. The whole bloody island. Worse yet, me. Nikki. _

But if the gods meant for a terrible ruler to come first then that they must. _The better to teach me, by negative example? _That was scarcely credible, but the alternative was unpalatable. He was meant to rule, and he would. That he had not yet seized the power meant that… that this, also must be destined. He sat for a moment, lost in thought, then kicked his heels sharply against his horse's flanks, and rode through the rain-soaked streets.

---

His eyes flickered open. The air was dank, humid. He sat there, staring avidly at the stones of the wall, trying to work them out. Too rough to have been actual stonework and not nearly closely mortared enough to be a dungeon, he determined. Nor was the air cool enough to be a dungeon. All the same, the stones were a little too regular, too florid, to be completely random. Obviously somebody had cut them, so that left a cave out of it. Pondering the mystery for a few moments, he finally decided that he was in the foundations of a larger structure. Or an aged temple.

He tried to turn his head, to see if he could discover more clues and found that he could not. Other men might have panicked. Other men probably would have panicked immediately upon waking to such an unfamiliar situation. But not Sir Astral of Granseal.

_Iron control. _It was the first principle of magic, always. Iron control. And his whole life had taught him the value of patience. He could afford to be patient, anyway. He was in no great hurry to unravel this mystery. If he could not move his neck even, then he was likely either wounded or hostage. And in either case, undue haste would be the death of him.

Instead he closed his eyes again in reflective thought. Bowie and King Granseal… yes. He had been asserting himself in the council. Too forcefully. Minister Graig… yes, that was it. Bowie seemed well on the way to becoming enemies with Graig… _They were cordial at the feast. Ah, yes! The feast!_ Astral considered. What did he remember of the feast? Massive, and most of the food too rich for him. _Aye, and near everyone at the high dais drunk, save myself. And Graig and Elis of course. _

And then? He wasn't certain. He had wanted to speak to that grey-robed mage, he remembered. That one's power had felt unusual. Indeed, alarming would not have been too extreme a word. And he had wanted to find Kazin, talk with him about Lord Kronos…

_Kronos, yes. His father was a great butcher, I remember. He and Mrell got along very well. _The general… he did not recall. Drunk, likely as not. And it did not matter. Mrell coveted power, but he was too clumsy to obtain it and on the off-chance that he did, he would have no idea what to do with it. _Kronos, though, something about Kronos…_

He cast his mind further back than the feast. Kronos had come to the feast, yes, he remembered the Delegation. And there had been seven, no, eight others with him? Astral wasn't certain. It seemed as though there were something important there… Unease? Yes, he remembered feeling that… _King Granseal… drunk. Not unusual, but what then? _Slowly Astral smiled, remembering. _Isolated, of course. That's it. He was drunk, and who was there to protect him? Mrell was drunk, Bowie was drunk, Graig is old… Slade was not there._

It hit him like a thunderbolt. Slade. Slade was a ratman. A ratman. The shaman. The shaman had wanted to speak to him, and there had been energy released and now…_ Captured_, he realized dully. Well, that had never been in serious question. If he had merely been wounded somebody would have been around by now. He'd been conscious at least five minutes, and in such a serious case guards at least were never far.

A chill settled into his bones, as the worse thought occurred to him, the logical conclusion of his capture. _The high dais. The most capable people were drunk… I don't even remember Bowie being around at that point… Zellar milling around. All of them milling around. Slade wasn't there. Mrell was drunk, the king was drunk. Isolation. Graig and Elis though… Elis was dancing with a Galamani…_ The thought was monstrous, but there it was. Elis was cold-blooded enough, that was certain. But, was she just a catspaw in a more subtle scheme? _But the soldiers,_ he realized…

"Awake then, wizard!" The voice bellowed in his ears, it reverberated around in his skull. It tasted of power.

"My senses," Astral rasped. "Muted. I didn't realize you were there…"

"Ah," boomed the voice, an amused note to it. "I wasn't. You and I shall talk, wizard. In fact," the voice continued, the roar of it suddenly dropping to a soft silkiness, "we're going to do a good many things. But the talk must come first."

Astral took a few deep, reflective breaths. The power he felt in this presence was very nearly overwhelming, and that left open defiance out of the question. "About what?"

The voice chuckled. "Clever. Yes, very clever." The air solidified. Shifted. Hardened. Eventually a figure took form before Astral, and he drew in his breath sharply.

His face was very pale, and a great curling beard spilled from his chin. The figure was dressed in the elaborate faded blue uniform of a soldier. And his eyes…

"A devil," Astral rasped. "How? Zeon… Galam, they're both dead."

The figure laughed contemptuously. "Those oafs?" And then the blow fell. Astral cried out hoarsely, or at least he thought he did. He could still feel the power of it reverberating around his skull. The force of the sorcery, nearly blinding his sense of power, nearly shattering his strength, only served to make him certain. A devil. He was facing a devil.

The figure stared at him with burning eyes. "That nearly overwhelmed you, I see. And I can do it again. I can easily keep you alive as well," the devil said, "so save yourself a bit of pain. There are only two rules. You tell me everything I wish to know. And you will _never_," a lighter blow struck at his mind as the devil stressed the word, "call me a devil again. I've spent too long being belittled by that name."

"Why," Astral gasped, trying to regain some of his shaken strength, "would you deny your nature? Only a devil could do this to me."

"You…!" The devil raised its hand, and then stopped, the jaw twitching. After another moment, it stepped back, nodding again. "Clever, yes, as I said. You wish to provoke me, to avoid being forced to speak." It shook its head. "And don't flatter yourself. You're certainly powerful for a human mage, but there are beings of power in this world. Ones other than devils as you will well know. Why should I not be one of them?"

Astral frowned, for a moment drawn to the question. "You don't seem to hold your masters of Galam in any great regard," he admitted.

'"Masters?' Oh, that's rich. I am aloof from them, for neutrality was all that the others left me." The voice dropped into bitterness. "I don't suppose you know what I'm talking about? Well you shouldn't. If you knew what I was about, what I'm really after, you'd love me for it. You'd swear yourself to my service, you'd be a convert, a prophet amongst the insects inhabiting this world. No," the figure shook its head, "I can't have it. They would notice if that happened, and so would he." The figure cursed. "Neutrality! That was never the first option, nor was it the best one. Had my brothers not proven so very weak, when the first splintering occurred, all might have been saved, but acting was beyond them. Passive resistance is worse than neutrality, which is why I'm taking the active hand they were too weak to take on. They cast me out and now it is to me to do that work." It shook its head again. "Very well, that ought to pacify you, wizard. Will you tell me what I need?"

Astral tried not to laugh. That had been obviously staged, the loss of control, the long lecture. Was it supposed to intrigue him into sharing indiscreet tidings, to weaken his resolve? "You will forgive me," he rasped, his throat dry as a bone, "but capturing me does not appear to be… neutral."

"Don't mock me with that," the devil snapped. "You've already called me a devil, is that not enough? It is from that very creed, that very neutrality that I took my new name."

Astral frowned slowly. "You… what creed?"

The figure smiled. "Ah," it said softly. "You do know quite a bit don't you? Very well, you mentioned Zeon. I want you to tell me everything you know about him. About all the old legends. The birth of the world. The ancient wars. Otrant of Manarina and the existence of magic. All of it, Astral of Granseal. And then I may help you."

Astral stared, uncertain. Was this a trick of some kind? He licked his lips nervously, unresolved.

---

Lord Paul Chelsted strode into his apartments, his mood so black that he fancied the whole castle was shaking with his impotent rage. "Bloody rain," he swore, flinging his cloak off.

Ricketts stared at him, open-mouthed. "Lord Paul," he squeaked. "You're… you're soaked to the bone. What can I do, my lord? Some mulled wine?"

"Yes. Very well. Whatever you deem necessary." He flung himself down into a chair, pushing his dripping hair off of his forehead. His skin felt clammy and cold, but Lord Paul Chelsted's nerves were burning, they were on fire.

The indignities he had suffered by leaving the castle for Nikki's bed were bad enough, but then there was also the small matter that the whole thing had been pointless. _Damn me. She's just a woman and Galam needs the greatest hand it could have. With Kronos as our dear Lord Regent… _

Ricketts was still staring at him, an uncertain expression on his face. Lord Paul took a breath, then another. "Some wine, yes, I think so. And perhaps a bite to eat. There's much to consider… where's Tiberius?"

Ricketts swallowed, bobbed his head a few times, and finally managed. "My lord. That is just the… the…" He hopped from one foot to the other. "The other lords are here," he finished lamely.

"The other…" Lord Paul Chelsted's jaw twitched. "Of course," he said softly. "They will not all have forsaken me." He wasn't certain how to take that. How much help would five or so lords be able to offer him against the rest of Galam? _Tiberius. I still have Tiberius and the swords that he commands. Kronos cannot disregard that. But will these others all support me? Or are they here to threaten, to cajole, to persuade? As I tried to do for Nikki… _He curled his fists up. "Damn them," he muttered

With a grunt of irritation, he surged up out of the chair. "Here," he asked, "in the apartments?"

Ricketts opened and closed his mouth. The aide hopped onto one foot, and then the other. "I… I told them you were out, my lord, but they bade me give them room to wait. A little longer and they may-"

"No. If they leave now, they'll see me and that will be worse, for them to see me in the leaving than for me to meet them like this." He gestured at his rain spattered cloak and doublet in disgust.

"Your hand," Ricketts murmured.

Lord Paul frowned for a moment, glancing down. Of course. The palm was bleeding again. "It is of no matter," he said. "The lords, Ricketts. Take me to them."

Ricketts bowed his head, quickly, and hobbled for the door to the inner apartments. Lord Paul Chelsted followed, composing his expression as best he could. He would need all his eloquence, all his grandeur to sway them to remain at his side. He would require all of his inherent greatness, for the demands of such greatness were great.

He glared at the back of Ricketts's servile head. _Bloody fool, letting them here like this. I ought to take his head for that. _He wouldn't, of course. He needed Ricketts, he trusted and relied on him. _They are all such liars, all of them but Ricketts. _ The old man had always been there, he had always been strong where Father had been weak, he had always been wise in the ways of the world where Father had been merely clever.

Ricketts had always been loyal. _And anyway, it was my error, not instructing him for this possibility. And all because of Nikki… the one flaw in the tapestry. Kronos means nothing, I can outmaneuver him yet, yet Nikki…_ He shrugged his shoulders. That flaw would either be woven properly into the tapestry or consigned to the flames. _She is only a woman and there are more than enough of those… though only one of her…_ His jaw twitched, and Ricketts stepped aside for him to come forward, murmuring, "My lords, Lord Paul Chelsted."

Five they were, the faces pale and guarded. Lord Paul Chelsted could taste the uncertainty in the air, but he paid it no mind. There was no cause to pay it mind. If Lord Paul Chelsted gave in, the uncertainty would be his, not theirs. As it was, he knew that he was more vital than every man in the town, even though he was soaked and bleeding. _It is their weakness, and theirs it shall remain. So long as I maintain my presence, it always will be. _"My friends," he said, taking a seat across from the red-haired Lord Jarvos. "My dear friends."

"Friends? You have the gall to name us friends, Chelsted?"

He slowly turned his head to behold Lord Odney. The clean-shaven young lord was staring at him with open distrust. _Chelsted. So it is back to that. This is not good. _"What else might I call you, Lord Odney? Have you given me cause to call you aught but friend?"

Lord Odney snorted, drawing himself up in his chair. "You made us promises, Chelsted!" The brash young nobleman's posture and gaze were just a resolute as they had been, but his voice had sunken into a more sullen than accusatory tone.

"As did you," Lord Paul replied. He turned his head again, including all the others in his gaze. "All of you. You made promises to me. And yet now I find this… hostility?" He shook his head. "What am I to make of that? Could it be that five such puissant lords are all oath-breakers?"

Lord Odney exploded to his feet, but little Lord Neto was faster than him. "How _dar-"_

"I saw each of you raise your swords for Lord Kronos, to swear him as Lord Regent of Galam. After vows to support _my_ ascension, what else am I to call you?"

Lord Jarvos spoke, softly. He had a gift of presence that way; all other men would quiet to hear him. "Lord Kronos made his demand by blood, or do you forget that the Gransi have slain Parval?" Jarvos's queer pale eyes were expressionless.

Lord Paul prevented himself from flicking his gaze at Lord Jarvos, but only barely. _Are you… offering me that, to smooth over my own mistake of just a moment ago? I must take a certain amount of care, certainly. _"And that qualifies him as a leader?" There was a moment of cool silence, and then Lord Paul continued, "And if you all merely wish to have nothing more to do with me, then why all come now? Why not send our eloquent Lord Odney to deliver your… reneged pledges?" _That's better. I must walk softly here, or I will lose them all, not merely Odney. _

"Promises, Chelsted!" Odney's face was twisted with anger. "We all listened to your promises, to you prating on about how wonderful it would be when you ruled Galam. Well you don't and you kept none of your promises! We are through with you."

"How could I keep the promises that you, Lord Odney, gave away my power to do so? And," he continued, fixing Odney with a cool look that paused him in mid-objection, "if all you wish is to be free of me, then why come to me? Why all come to me?"

"Well, _I_ am through with you." Odney surged to his feet. "You promised me the land that the Munkrey's stole from us. Lord Kronos did more than promise, he gave it me. He ruled on that matter. I follow the path of blood..." He gave Lord Paul a look of distaste. "Like a true Galamani." With that, he swept out of the room.

Lord Paul Chelsted was not precisely surprised, but even he had to admit that it was a bit discouraging. He looked from one face to the next of the four lords who sat there with him. One by one they all rose, not meeting his eyes. "I will remember," he said at last, deeming that now was the moment to push them hardest. "I will remember all of those false friends who think naught of betraying promises."

There was a shamefaced look here, a twitch of the lips there, but one by one, the lords of Galam filed out. Lord Jarvos was the last of them, and in his eyes was a speculative look. _Ah. I certainly have not lost that one. He's not stupid enough to believe that Kronos can last, unlike Odney. _In the end, Lord Paul supposed he should be grateful that the whole encounter had obviously been of Lord Odney's design. Odney was brash man, and frankly, a stupid one. Brash men were often the first to change course. Given time, Lord Paul would win him back. _Though I would truly be more inclined to give him a noose than an offer of alliance. _

He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, leaned his head back. Not one of those lords was small or insignificant. Lord Odney was the only one who may have been the former, at least, and if Kronos had won him by ruling on the disupute with the Munkrey's... _No, this is not good. Kronos tries to show himself as generous to his supporters, and how am to gainsay that when it is he who has the power? _

It was in the blood, Lord Paul Chelsted reflected sourly. It all told from the blood. _They follow him because Parval has been slain. They see that as sufficient reason to follow him, and I see that. He can make that demand of them. _Parval had been one of Lord Paul's highest hopes. The old soldier had hated his nephew, and that was something that Lord Paul could have used, could have shaped. But he had been stationed at the Rhyl...

_The Green Baron's work doubtless. The Delegation is known to all, but Lord Zocc knows of my plans and takes them to Kronos. They reach the city ahead of me, insult the Gransi, most like, and seize Astral. And knowing that any men would pursue them after such an insult, they have Parval stationed at the Rhyl And it must have been Zocc, had Kronos ordered him to do it, Parval would have balked. But with him there, and his vainglorious attitude about any battle in a five mile radius to himself... _And now Lord Odney. Oh, Lord Paul had sowed some doubts. He had shamed them. They would not be steady daggers in Kronos's hand now, and that could make all the difference. But only if Lord Paul had steady daggers of his own. And with Parval slain, the high lords wedded to Kronos's power, even having Tiberius might not be enough.

He cursed. "The bastard checks my moves before I make them." _The blood. _It all flowed from the blood, and not just Kronos's pretty manipulation of Parval. _Father. If you had ever been strong enough to grace the name of Chelsted, oh gods, then what? _His hand tightened on the arm of his chair, as he stared up at the imposing portrait of his long dead sire. Lord Jon Chelsted had been a clever man, a handsome man, but a weak one for all that.

_As I am not. I am strong enough to take the power even despite this, I..._ But as if in answer to his innermost thoughts, Nikki's face floated through the corridors of his mind. _A woman. There are more women, dammit! _His clenched hand was bleeding again. And trembling. "Ricketts." The command was hoarse in his throat, even he could barely hear it. "Ricketts!"

The shout brought his aide running. Ricketts burst into the room, his lined face etched with concern. "My lord..." His eyes fell on Lord Paul's hand. "The wine is nearly prepared... perhaps you would like some numb wine? Aught it be best that you rest yourself, my lord?"

"Tiberius," Lord Paul Chelsted rasped, fighting a wave of sickly exhaustion. His head ached, and he felt cold, but there was no time. "You must fetch Tiberius. For Galam..." His tongue was clumsy in his mouth, and his thoughts were becoming harder to grasp. What had happened to the thoughts, to his shrewdness? He could feel it all draining away from him. _Nikki..._ The thought of her was unbidden, but he grasped at it with all his strength. "Not to leave me," he mumbled. "Need to hold it. Keep it. Still... here..."

The focus of the world was fading around him, but he could still hear Ricketts in the distance. "You need to be put to your bed, my lord. The healers will be here soon enough."

There was no condemnation in his voice, even though Ricketts knew. He knew that Lord Paul had been to see Nikki, he knew of her, he knew from whence this weakness in an otherwise inordinately great man sprang. "Ti...beri..." he couldn't even finish the word.

"When you're strong enough, my lord. When you're strong enough."

_Strong... now. Than Father. Stronger... Gods, Nikki... what did I say, where... Kronos... Stronger... _

---

The ship seemed tall and imposing to Clatt. He took a deep breath, resisting the urge to fidget with his mage's cloak. It calmed him but slightly, so he took another, puffing out his chest and squaring his shoulders as he did so. He took two steps forward, inwardly cringing the whole way. This ship flew the flag of Guardiana, what if they knew of him?

He had traveled far and wide after the fall of Skull Castle, terror of discovery being one of the primary things from keeping him from tarrying in any one place too long. But now he was here to retrieve the cargo of a ship loyal to Anri of Guardiana. The burly sailor who'd come ashore for him grunted, "Well, are ye coming or no?"

_I must impress upon him my power, I must..._ "Y-yes. I a-a-a-am," he stuttered lamely.

The sailor snorted loudly and pushed his way forward to the little rowboat that had been lowered for Clatt's benefit. With not a further word, the sailor leapt into the stern of the vessel. Clatt gingerly climbed aboard, wishing that he had not lost his horse. Just as he was righting his balance enough to sit down, the sailor dipped his oars to the water and Clatt fell back, painfully hitting his head on the seat.

Muttering curses, Clatt whispered a quick freeze spell to avoid some of the splash. The sailor rowed on for some minutes, seemingly ignoring him, when he abruptly asked, "Be ye a mage?"

"Y-yes," squeaked Clatt. Feeling that it was his both his chance and duty to show the simpleton a little condescension, he continued, "A gr-great mage! I-"

"Ah, shut yer trap, you lummox." Shaking his head darkly, the sailor started turning back around, muttering, "Could've mentioned it, couldn't he? Cap'n won't abide mages aboard his ship, and he's right, he is."

"N-now, just a m-m-mom-mo-m-mom-moment," Clatt stuttered. 'The c-car-"

"Ye'll get yer bloody prisoner, so just be's letting me concentrate, now won't yer?"

_A prisoner? But what...? _He obeyed the command, though it rankled his pride that this mere sailor had the gall to command Clatt. He was a strong man, and Clatt knew that well, for he had spent his whole life on his guard. Life was hard, and that was a truth that Clatt knew well. Spending years bowing and scraping, always careful never to say a wrong thing, frantically studying the magical arts, suffering humiliation for the stammer that had been born into him... And yet, look at all he had accomplished in his life; High Commander Lynx had raised Clatt high and he had performed admirably in one of the pivotal battles of that war, not only against the enemy, but also against Lynx's other men. And even after Lynx's own death, he had retained his honors under Eiku. And he had escaped the fall of Skull Castle, fleeing well away from a pointless death.

And now he was the servant of a god. How could Clatt come to any conclusion other than the fact that his was a high and lonely destiny? _But, admitting life is hard, I'm always on my guard, and so what is that? _

"Belay yer fidgetin'!" snapped the sailor.

Clatt jerked, startled, but he quickly adopted a contrite expression and posture, all the while feverishly working on what this assignment really meant. Lord Minister Graig was trusting him, a mage with no antecedents, to attend to the pickup of a prisoner? That struck Clatt as suspicious. _A setup? _In his time wandering Rune, and more recently, Parmecia, Clatt had learned well to heed his instincts. Graig was a difficult man to read; when Clatt had met with him, Granseal's minister had seemed an elegant and courteous man, but little else had been apparent.

This could mean nothing more than that Graig wanted to circumvent ordinary channels... _But in that case, would he kill me when he was done with me?_ Clatt's flesh was crawling. If he knew anything, then it was how easy it was to use power to kill. _I needed to go somewhere or that soldier would have kept me in the cell. _Even death was better than a cell, after all. Even death. But what was he thinking?

Nervously, Clatt slapped his right arm, which, he noticed, had started to get a bit twitchy. He was Clatt. He was strong. He was the servant of a living god. The boat jerked to a halt, and Clatt looked up. The ship, now that he was docked just next to it, looked no less imposing from a close view.

The sailor leapt up, and bellowed, "Lower the riggin's, and send the prisoner down." He glowered at Clatt for a few moments in silence before adding, "Ye can be taking a look, but then you'll have to come on up. Cap'n Kilandros'll want to be talking to you." Without another word, the sailor scampered up the rope ladder.

But in that moment, Clatt's mind was made up. "_Cap'n Kilandros'll want to be talking to you." They know. They know, and they're of Guardiana. My god commanded their deaths, but the safety of the ship... blast it!_

There was a brief sight of arms above at the railing, and then a large bundle dropped. The tied man gave a grunt of pain, but Clatt only gave him the briefest flick of his eyes to ascertain that it really was the prisoner. He could deal with this one, whoever it was, in a minute. With a nervous squeak, he seized the oars and began rowing haphazardly away. He heard a shout from the deck. "OY! What're-"

But Clatt didn't give the enquiry any time. Stuttering lightly, he held up his hand and shrieked, "Bl-b-blaze!" The sensation that greeted him was unlike anything that Clatt had ever known. A roaring conflagration of might roared through his being, shaking and melting him down to the bones. He stared avidly at the ship as it burst into sheets of flame in the grip of a feeling not unlike ecstacy. _The gift of my god._

He heaved a sigh of relief, rowing more calmly now. He could come back later and salvage what was left of the ship; it was more important that his identity never be discovered. Even if Graig was uncertain, he was far safer on Grans than he'd ever be in Rune. They'd kill him for war crimes their, but here...

He glanced over at the passenger, whom, he realized abruptly, must be unconscious from the fall. He frowned at the sight of the armor, a dark red in hue. _That's not rust..._ With a growing sense of inevitability, he stopped long enough to take a hard look at the face and then the armor. He sat back, for a moment, completely forgetting about the need to get off the water. He had been contracted to bring Graig Zeon's Red Baron. The human general once known as Lemon. 


	10. Chapter 9: Follies

Chapter 9

Follies

"There we go," Frayja announced, briefly scratching his nose. "Well and good. You must of course inform me if you feel the slightest difficulty with the bone. Alas, healing magic is never quite so certain when it comes to the knitting of bone as it is of flesh, although I must say that I may have overcome that particular barrier…" He paused, perhaps wishing for the silence to sound modest.

Kazin gritted his teeth. "To be sure." Frayja squinted at him, and he added, somewhat reluctantly, "You've been most kind. My thanks."

Frayja nodded several times, his face smoothing into its customary pompous expression. "Not at all. It is the duty of every priest to be of service, and as a High Priest, does this duty not rest ever more heavily upon my own shoulders? How could it not?"

_Gods, man, you're windy. Hurry up and finish. I have better things to do than sit here and listen to you. High Priest indeed. _Frayja's claims to power were nothing more than pure self-aggrandizement. _He naturally prefers to leave out the fact that his temple was slaughtered. _The priest showed no signs of tiring of his own voice any time soon. Kazin abruptly stood. "I must speak to Bowie." The comment itself was too brusque, but Kazin was having a hard time containing his dislike for Frayja.

The High Priest was an oily, slimy man; ingratiating and duplicitous. Bowie himself had some fondness for the man, but then Bowie seemed to have fondness for everybody. _And even if he is all of these things, do I dare touch him? _He wasn't even certain that he could. Frayja had the benefit of years of experience, and though Kazin had done no investigating, he wouldn't be surprised to learn that the man sat in a near unassailable position. _All he's had to be is free, and he's been that. How much of matters of supplies, gold does he now have a hand in? To say nothing of his incessant attempts to dine with everyone. A following mayhaps? Or has morbidity made me paranoid? _

Frayja's expression had not changed. "Of course." Kazin started away, but the High Priest called after him. "Mayhaps you will sup with me, Lord Kazin?"

Kazin took a moment to answer, being sure to control the disgust in his voice. "I fear not. I have… prior commitments."

Frayja smiled slightly. "Another time, Lord Kazin."

As he stepped out of the tent, he could not help wondering. _There is something insolent about the man, that much cannot be denied. But how much of my own impatience with bloody all of them is reading itself into this?_ Even starting away, though, the guilt was beginning to rise. _Alright, dammit, Frayja is obsequious. That's no reason to… _He sighed deeply and put the matter of the displeasing priest out of his mind. Frayja was not his concern.

It was very late, and the night had a chill to it. _Bloody lovely. The weather has chosen to reflect my mood. _An ache had set into his arm at the crook between elbow and forearm. He grunted in irritation. Kazin was entertaining no notions of returning to get aid from Frayja again. Despite the steady drizzle, he could see that the various members of this little… expedition had managed to get a good number of fires blazing anyway.

_Well, that's some hot dinner at least. _Kazin dithered helplessly for a moment, between going and leaving. Truth to tell, he had no prior commitments. He supposed that he probably should see Bowie, but he didn't know that that was necessary. Nor was he certain of what kind of reception he would get, after his… _Initiative, I suppose? _

With a grunt, he strode off. Some hot food would help to settle him, he hoped. A fire that was not too crowded would be best, he felt. His nerves were still too raw after dealing with Kronos and his own oppressive company. _And this, of course. Not even I'm certain how to take my act of… heroism at the Rhyl. Not that it was even that, of course. _And most like if he had to talk to anybody much, they'd want to tell him things. They always did, and Kazin frankly was not in the mood to listen.

"Kaz!" He jumped slightly, and turned, almost resigned. Jaha waved furiously at him, his face shining with pleasure. "Kaz, join us!"

He hesitated for a moment, but it would be just rude to turn away now. _And anyway, I judge Jaha too harshly. I always have, just because the others do so to me. Bloody hell. _He forced himself to smile calmly. "Jaha." He nodded around the fire generally. Chester was there, and Eric as well. Kiwi, Taya and Peter. A crowd, in total. Kazin found that disheartening.

The dwarf leapt to his feet, grinning from ear to ear. "Sit down, sit down." He slapped Kazin hard, right at the crook of his arm.

The mage clenched his teeth as the ache set in more deeply. "That's _right_ where my arrow wound was, Jaha."

For half a second, the dwarf's smile flickered but then he chuckled. "Right, right. You're just from seeing Frayja, I guess. Well so long as there aren't any _new _wounds!"

"Quite," said Kazin, shaking his head helplessly.

"My dear friend," Eric said solemnly, leaning down to clasp his hand. "Your gallantry has put us all to shame. Such an exploit should be immortalized in song."

Kazin managed to jerk out another smile. _Gallantry? Is that what this is all about?_ "You are too kind, Sir Eric. Were it not for the work of you and others in the vanguard, doubtless I would have had no opportunity for such action." He only kept the smile on his face with effort. The courtesy sounded insincere, even to him.

Chester shook his head. "Truly, Kazin, your attack was the turning point in the battle. I congratulate you."

Kazin struggled for a moment to fill the silence. Eric and Chester could almost be brothers from the way they talked. He snorted. _Brothers indeed. Chester has a sincere interest in his knightly valor, but a sincere interest in people too. Eric… mayhaps. _"Why talk of blood spilled, things we can't change?" The words came out more sharply than he had meant them to.

Eric's handsome face creased. "We only meant… my pardons, Lord Kazin if I have given offense. I never meant…"

"I am not offended, Sir Eric." He felt such a bloody fool. _I'm not meant for this damn thing of saying one thing and meaning another. Nor are any of the rest of them, but that's what I keep reading into things. _

The silence lasted a moment longer, then Peter stretched his wings luxuriously. "Have you heard what Bowie plans to do next?"

Kazin arched a brow. "No."

"Hmm." The grunt was annoyed. "He should have told _me_ at least."

Kazin bit back the automatic retort. Peter was a strong fighter and a loyal ally. He had spoken for Bowie in Parmecia, and had followed him well. That he had too great a sense of his own importance was unfortunate, but there was nothing to done about that.

Fortunately Kazin was spared the necessity of responding as Chester stepped in. "That was not chivalrously said, my friend." He shook his head at Peter. "Lord Bowie is most like still formulating an ultimate goal, here. How so can we expect him to yet speak?"

Peter yawned. "Yes." He waved one wing vaguely about. "Undoubtedly so. I believe I shall sleep. Let me know if something important happens." With that, the phoenix took to the air.

The silence stretched on after that. Mayhaps the others were uncomfortable with Peter's open display of arrogance. Mayhaps not. The silence was comforting to Kazin.

He sat there, studying the flames, the way the fire shifted and danced. Mended and weaved. It held a fascination for him, a near hypnosis. Compared to the thoughts that dogged him day and night, contemplation of fire was a harmless pastime. And there was the pride too. He was Kazin, an accomplished mage and researcher. Fire had been his first mastery.

He snorted. _My first love. _That cut a bit close to the bone. _I learned from the flames, dammit. I made something of them. I…_ He jerked his eyes away from the compelling warmth. Fire was life; mayhaps that was the root of the fascination it still held for him. _Fire_, he thought ruefully, _is power. And I have little enough of that which pleases me. _

The silence continued, but to Kazin it sounded abruptly suspect. Didn't the others usually talk? They could hardly have finished the give and take of repartee that usually went on between them.

Jaha cleared his throat. "Some food, Kaz?"

The mage frowned, looking around the campfire for a moment. "You'd have to fetch it."

Jaha shrugged. "We haven't all eaten." The mildness of the comment was unusual.

Kazin's frown remained in place. _Did Peter really make him that uncomfortable? _The other possibility hit him. _Or, gods be good, is it me?_

Kiwi broke in, nodding vigorously, his eyes shining. "Food," he said in a reverent voice. "Hams, stew, bread…"

Jaha laughed and in a moment he seemed the same as ever. "We hardly have roast hams." He slapped his gut, grinning. "Got to do some good hunting first!"

"Indeed," said Chester. "Should there be time on the morrow, might we not suggest it to Lord Bowie? Doubtless my old friend will see the wisdom in replenishing our supplies, and what better use of our time could we make whilst he waits for reinforcements?" Chester seemed already to have forgotten that nobody was supposed to know of Bowie's plans. Though, to be fair, Kazin supposed that Chester probably didn't.

In the meantime, the centaur was declaring grandly, "It should be my great honor should you consent to join such a hunting party, Kiwi."

Kiwi smiled, his face eager. Chester turned his head. "Jaha?" The dwarf nodded vigorously.

"It's been too long since I've had this opportunity."

'"Opportunity,"' Chester repeated, his voice a shade more thoughtful. "That may be the very word, my friend. These woods are a good spot to wait out any reports or reinforcements. We could scarce choose better ground for our familiarity and the mutual distress of any enemy attack."

"No," Kazin said without stopping to think of it. The others stared at him.

"You have, mayhaps," Chester ventured after a moment, "a different thought?"

Kazin's lips curled downward. The politeness of the phrasing he might have taken as an unconscious insult under other circumstances, but Chester's tone was actually respectful. Nearly deferential. _Not quite part of the noble knight, is it? But what…_ The realization struck him, as suddenly as the blow of a hammer.

_Of course,_ he sneered silently. _I'm gallant now, I mustn't forget. The victory at the Rhyl is one they cannot attribute to anyone else… unlike Astral and I weakening old Galam enough for Bowie to cut him down. That was more Astral's doing than mine. Jaha's solicitation, Chester's interest, yes very much so. The hero of the Rhyl. Now I'm not craven to them, damn the lot of them. _

"The Yeeli," he said shortly, realizing that the others were still waiting for elucidation.

Chester stroked his chin. "They could access this spot with ease," he said slowly.

Kazin's mouth tightened. _Listen to heroes, do you? Bloody hell, why did I jump clear into that damn river? _"We cannot be certain whether or not the Yeeli are still our enemies. Camping here would carry that risk."

Jaha shot to his feet. "Why don't I get us some dinner?" His voice was eager. Too eager.

"I…" Kazin bit back the momentary loss of control. "I fear not. I must be on my way. Bowie, you know."

Jaha's face fell. "But…" Finally he shrugged. "If we're still here tomorrow, want to join the hunting?"

Kazin considered briefly. He still didn't care much for Jaha's thoughtless arrogance, but the very fact of the offer was an improvement. He knew nothing of hunting, of course, but refusing would not be politic either. His cheek twitched. "Why not?"

Chester sighed heavily. "It has been an honor," he said pompously, as he shook Kazin's hand. The mage struggled not break into bitter laughter. It was nearly as though they had met for the first time. "But we must do our duties," he finished, finally releasing Kazin's hand.

He forced another smile. "Quite. My thanks. It's been pleasant."

He started off, when Taya abruptly shot to her feet. "Kazin," she sputtered, running after him. He paused.

"Yes?" He supposed it wasn't very polite to stray too far from the fire with her while the night was so damp and chill. Accordingly, he drew to a halt. Taya, however kept on walking. He frowned, curious. The Parmecian sorceress had never passed many words with him before.

_But that, _he thought bitterly, _was before Sir Kazin of Granseal won the bloody battle of the Rhyl._ That raised a momentarily distracting point. He much preferred 'sir' to 'lord.' He'd have to try to effect that change.

Taya didn't seem in any hurry to speak, she walked straight on, looking neither left nor right, her head held high. "Is it wise, my lady, to stray from the warmth of the fire?" he inquired at last.

She turned to face him, a dazzling smile on her face. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to ask you…" She was twisting the front of her robes in her hands. "Well, I've been meaning to ask for a while, but we were fighting and all." She turned her eyes down for a moment, and lock of golden hair slipped onto her shoulder. It was quite fetching, and, more disturbingly, Kazin felt his stomach go numb. She looked up shyly. "Would you teach me about magic? Your kind I mean."

Kazin stood there for a long moment, his mind completely blank. "I…" He made an effort to control the trembling in his voice. "This is sudden." He realized how stupid that must have sounded and felt a slow flush creeping up his face. He was suddenly very glad that the night was a dark one. "Why not Chaz? He has a more thorough understanding of magic than I, more practical for battle at least."

Truth to tell, the request conflicted him. On the one hand, he couldn't deny that it was pleasing, very nearly flattering. But the fact of the offer made him both angry and ashamed. Angry that she would ask at all, that she hadn't before. Ashamed… _Ashamed that I'm talking to Taya and not… not to her? Or ashamed that she's not talking to me?_

"But you know sorcery too," Taya said eagerly. "Surely you have a better grasp on the mechanics if you know _both _fields." She stopped, and blushed. She did it very prettily too, Kazin noted with a dull resentment. "That wasn't very kind, I suppose, but I also heard that you studied shamanry! And I could teach you more about sorcery."

That much was certainly true. _But where by Volcanon's stones did she hear about the shamanry? I can't do anything with it. _"Well," he said, feeling rather awkward. "I suppose I could… go over some of the basics with you."

"Oh, _thank_ you!" Taya beamed at him and, laughing, gave him a hug. She turned and practically skipped back towards the fire they had vacated. He stood there, rooted numbly to the spot.

_So the hero of the Rhyl is worth learning from, is he? _He was almost immediately ashamed of the thought. With an angry grimace, he turned away and trudged a few feet forward. It had been curious seeming, but why not after all? They could equally well benefit from such an arrangement, so why not? He shook his head, disgusted. _My nerves are all shot to pieces. That's all. _

Taya's manner had struck him as odd, but that was likely because the two had never talked before. His mouth tightened. _The victor of the Rhyl is worth speaking to, it would seem._ He shuddered briefly, filled with nothing but rage at his companions. "Damn the lot of them," he muttered. "I'm a Gransi, as much as the others. I've fought before, proved myself no craven. Bloody Bowie."

It all flowed from Bowie. Bowie had befriended him, yes, but distantly. Bowie had come to him for help initially at Zeon's revival, yes, but he and Chester and Jaha had humiliated him… _I did not choose to have Yeeli mother. I didn't ask my father to rape her, dammit. And damn them for judging me for it! _

He took another two angry strides forward, scarcely noting the drizzle that had started up. Just at the moment he didn't care about war with Galam or any of the rest of it. He didn't care about seeing Bowie, didn't care if respect was eternally denied him. All he wanted was to not have to talk to anyone else, to be able to get to his tent and stay there, to not have to consider Sarah again…

He halted. _Sarah again. Always again. Always Sarah. _A hysterical laugh nearly burst from his lips, but with pure force of will he strangled it. "I will not," he whispered angrily. "I will not be made a fool of."

The sky rumbled ominously, and Kazin glanced up. Within moments a heavier rain began to fall. With another curse, he set off, hoping to get to a thicker part of the trees at least. He ran heedlessly forward, hoping to get to some thick underbrush. Perhaps a tent, though he wasn't certain where... He shivered deeply as the spatters of water started coming down heavily. He pushed hair out of his eyes, squinting. With such poor visibility... Was that a glow, a bit off to the left? _A fire? Under tree cover? I'd better bloody well hope so. _

He ran forward, determined to get to some kind of shelter. He couldn't even make out the glow he'd thought he'd seen anymore, likely he would just go slipping in the muck for a while. But then, Kazin reflected, many things in life were hard. What was rain compared to the litany of suffering that raised its voice across every land, in every soul, in every hurt? What was rain but the most pathetic complaint of a comfortable man? "Blaze," he shouted.

The burst of flame was enough... there was a fire and close. Kazin pushed himself harder than ever, silently berating himself for his foolishness. He could have improved the bloody visibility anytime he wanted. He skidded to a halt a fraction of second too late and tripped over a tree root, falling straight forward, nearly into the fire. He cursed, pushing his face out of the ground. "I..."

"Kazin." Sheela sat there, looking at him, her dark eyes unusually solemn. "You can share the fire if you want."

"Thank you," he said, genuniely grateful. He had always liked Sheela a bit more than most of the others anyway. There were no illusions about her, no pretensions. He'd never really talked much with the woman, but she was better to talk to than most and none else seemed to be with her. _Tomorrow. Bowie can wait until tomorrow. _

He stumbled upright and settled against the back of a tree, glancing sourly back out into the night. The burst of rain had subsided into a drizzle again. _Probably because I'm not there to be rained on._ A humorless laugh burst through his lips. _Self-pity. Gods above and below, I'm growing more pathetic and needy by the second. _

Sheela sat there, her legs pulled up to her chest, head resting on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs, just looking at him with an inscrutable expression. Kazin ignored it; such silent contemplation was more to his taste than conversation, particularly in his current circumstances. He huddled a bit closer to the fire, shooting one quick glance at her. The mastermonk returned his gaze, but offered no comment.

Kazin sighed in pleasure, and closed his eyes, determined to sink into the comfortable warmth of the fire. No concerns. No regrets. No doubts, for at least just a little while.

"I... wanted to thank you," Sheela's voice came abruptly.

Kazin's eyes opened. With an effort he restrained himself from groaning. "What? You..." His mouth snapped shut. _Of course. The bloody Rhyl. _"I did my duty."

Sheela's eyes were so dark, so reflective as she just looked at him, a faint smile curling her lips. She was quiet for several moments before she said, "You saved my life. Thank you."

_And what, pray, am I supposed to say to that? _"It was my duty," he finally offered, grudging every word. Why had she had to bring the thing back to the front of his mind. Now he had concerns again. Regrets. _Doubts_. "I didn't mean to intrude," he continued. "If your encounter with such a... encounter has predisposed you to ponder your own mortality, I would understand. I would..."

Sheela just kept looking at him, smiling faintly. "You don't have to stay," she said.

Kazin's lips twisted for a moment and he studied the ground at his knees. Grass, that was wet with the rain, but not so muddy as it may have been. There had been understanding in that offer. The fact that she would tell him that, did that not denote understanding? Kazin paused, torn between true gratitude and his own oppressive company.

Sheela took his silence for an answer. "Your actions were very considerate."

_Considerate. _He shook his head darkly. _Next she'll be telling me that I'm punctual, damn her. And must she stare at me like that?_ "You were lucky. We were both lucky. This whole bloody expedition has been lucky. Aside from more war." _And how I'm lying in that. War is good all around, for Granseal. We don't have to be in the awkward position of offering anything; we can merely destroy the weaker power. War takes off the responsibility to do good by our former allies. _He jerked to his feet. "Pray excuse me."

He trod off into the darkness, flushed with shame and embarrasment. _That was unfair of me, dammit, but I have no stomach for any sort of praise. _Sheela's manner had struck him as rather odd, too, that he could not deny. _It wasn't truly just my discomfort. she was being... odd. Yes, distinctly so. And she didn't object to my extrication. _

Kazin shook his head. He'd have to do better. He'd have to fairer to these men and women that he rode with, for better or worse. Tomorrow. He could make a start tomorrow. But for tonight, let him have his sweet rage. _It's their fault too. Now that I'm the hero of the Rhyl, they all flutter around me, trying to suck the strength from me. Gods be good, no wonder Bowie sometimes looks half a corpse. _With a loud curse, he made for the direction of the tents. He did not want to think of Bowie. He did not want to understand him, to sympathize with him. Bowie was the best friend Kazin had ever had, even if this darkness kept consuming Kazin's thoughts. And Bowie was also better than him in all the ways that mattered. _All the ones that matter to Sarah. _

He felt like hitting something, but he merely tightened his grip on his staff, until his knuckles went white from the pressure. He was slipping badly if he'd been able to think _that_ baldly. _Dammit, no. I do not submit. I do not admit. I philosophically, categorically, and logically deny it. _"I won't!" He continued onward, unbothered by the shout. "I will not bend me knees. I will not care, I will not...." He stopped. Bit his lip until it bled. Looked at the sky. "Dammit..." He was making a fool of himself. _I've tried, so hard. It's a helpless situation, and that's reason enough to leave it alone. I'm not the man that she wants..._

That was not much of a conclusion to come to. It was anti-climatic, self-indulgent in its way... Oh, what was the use of dissembling? It was pathetic. _I'm acting the lovesick boy, that's what I'm doing. I, who have always noted the foolishness of such a... a... predicament. _He shook his head, swaying unsteadily. He felt nearly as sick as he had on the night of the feast. "This is no good," he muttered. "Better sleep." His impatience with the others, his distaste with Frayja, his struggle to be friendly with Sheela or Bowie or anyone... _I'm temporizing, dammit. _ _This wound, the sudden attention, my act of heroism and all of it, it's just put me on the raw. I'm admitting things to myself now... and jumping about to extreme conclusions. To ward off any claim in the one direction, I go fully in the other. Temporizing. I just need a little time. _

He shook his head again and took two stumbling steps forward. He needed to find his tent. Solitude. Sleep. Dreamless sleep. That was all he longed for. In sleep he could escape himself and the others to the greatest extent that was possible. The sound hit him then. Sniffling. Weeping. Unwillingly, he turned his head in the direction of the sound. There, he could see the nearer tents... and, gods be good, it was Sarah. His fingers curled. He stared up at the sky for a moment. _Gods, no. Why? Why this? Why now of all times? _

His mouth twisted shut, the lips pressed tightly together. The muscles in his shoulders tightened. His arms, his neck. His fingers twitched. With a great force of will, Kazin walked towards her. Leaving would be preferable of course... wouldn't it? But Kazin was enough of a man to be disgusted at that thought. If this burden was upon him, and it was, then he would face it, distasteful though it might be. And anyway, it was his fate. He had asked the whys of the situation. Kazin did not believe in whys.

Grinding his teeth, he came to a halt, a rough five paces shy of her. Her back was to him. He squared his shoulders as best he could, ignored the sweat beading on his forehead and said hoarsely, "Sarah?"

The elven girl (woman, truly, but her youthful antics sometimes rendered that impossible to remember) jumped slightly and turned. "Kazin! It's you." Her tone was relieved, yet... yet what?

_Disappointed_? He didn't know if he felt like laughing or crying himself. "Is..." For some reason, his throat wasn't working properly. "Is aught amiss?" A moment later he could have kicked himself. She was crying and his response was to ask her if aught was amiss? "I..." he stumbled onwards quickly. "Can I get you anything?"

She tried to smile, but her lips quickly quivered downward. "It's... nothing."

_Nothing. It's always bloody nothing, so why bother with the asking fool of a mage?_ "I don't suppose... that I could... do anything."

She smiled weakly at him, managing the expression this time. "Just... thank you for being here. I can talk to you about anything, Kazin." She sighed a bit wistfully. "You've been a better friend to me than anyone," she murmured, looking out into the night. "Better even than Bowie. You always listen. You understand."

_Do tell,_ he thought, for a moment sardonic. But then his own wave of emotions sprang up. The shame. The self-dsigust. The desire and the rage. He looked away. "No moreso than most."

She shook her head. "It's... I feel so... I shouldn't weigh you down with anything." Nonetheless she came to stand closer to him, clinging to his arm, as though for support. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know I just said..."

Kazin's arm started to ache worse than ever. "Whatever works, I suppose," he said mechanically. _How did I saddle myself with this? I think dying in the Rhyl would have been easier. _

She smiled again, still weak, but a bit more genuine. "Thank you. It's just... I've been thinking about Bowie again," -_Bowie again. Always Bowie_- "and it's just... I've always..." Her face screwed up and for a moment Kazin feared that she would burst into tears all over again. But her face cleared, and she suddenly shouted as though shouting a curse, "I've proved it haven't I?" There were tears on her cheeks and his hand had tightened on his arm, as though she were about to fall to her knees but had thought better of it.

He didn't have to ask what 'it' was. "Yes," he said, helpless, not knowing what to say. "But I'm not Bowie." _As if you hadn't noticed. _"If you talked to him instead of me..." He didn't say what he was really thinking, which was that it seemed like the best thing to do would just not bother with love of any kind. _In a different mood, she might be prepared to listen to a rational proposal in a negative form, but now..._ _This whole sort of mess renders people incapable of reasoning their way through things, most of the bloody time. I, blessedly, am an exception. _

She sniffled a bit, releasing him, as if abruptly noticing his discomfort. "It's not that easy, when you're love." She stepped back, her lips twitching between a smile and melancholy expression. "You'll know that, someday."

"I... suppose you're right." The fingers of his left hand started twitching. He was glad that it was dark enough outside that she couldn't see that, or the red anger in his face. "If you.... need anything... to talk again, I..."

She gave him the first real smile he'd seen that night. "Talking with you always makes me feel better. Thank you. That's very sweet."

The ache in his arm throbbed harder than ever, even as the twitching redoubled. "Yes, well," he muttered. "I..." But he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Sarah suddenly ran up to him and gave him a hug. "Thank you," she repeated. "You... that was good for me, I think. Maybe now I can..." She shook her head at him, smilingly and proceeded off in the direction of her own tent.

Kazin stood there, waiting until she was out of sight. His shoulders sagged, and he discovered his legs shaking. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "I need to get myself out of this." With a sudden rage he took off at his own pace, finally reaching his tent. He stepped in, no longer with any intention of going to sleep. _Just have bloody nightmares at this rate. _He found a small cup and rummaged around, looking for a little wine or water or something. After a few minutes of scrabbling about, he had a jug of water in his hand. He poured it, and took a mouthful, swirling it around for a moment. He swallowed. "Bloody fool," he burst out, abruptly, hurling the cup to the ground to shatter.

Red faced with anger and embarrasment, he berated himself, "Nothing, it's always bloody nothing and that's what it should be. You shouldn't..." A wave of exhaustion hit him and he slumped back down into his chair, staring at the shards of the cup. He shook his head, feeling more numb than angry now. _My bloody temper. Waste of a perfectly good cup. _And for a time, Kazin just sat there, staring at the remains of the cup, not moving, not thinking, just sitting. It could have been hours. It could have been years. _I could spend the rest of my life sitting on my own, with nobody helping me... nobody to help. No Bowie or Sarah or Chester or any of them. I wouldn't need to use my eyes to see, then. I could spend my life in magical research again. Quiet afternoons with tea, and reflection. The occasional walk... The waterside whenever I wanted it. Just endlessly sitting on my own._ The vision very nearly broke his heart, but it was sweet while it lasted.

Absently he picked up a quill and dabbed it in his inkwell, scrawling absent mindedly on a bare piece of parchment. After a moment he decided to go to sleep, and realized that he had the quill in his hand. Frowning with curiosity, he bent over the page. And he stared. And stared at what he had written with not a thought in his head towards the writing.

_Well the pressure's down _

_Because hot air won't stick _

_But neither will it let me sleep _

_Yes the pressure's down _

_If we're taken to war _

_But will we be? _

_Well war makes the air grow hotter _

_At the price of your blood in the water _

_But the night is dark _

_And the air is cool _

_And I'm looking up above _

_Wondering _

_Why the gods _

_Inflicted us with love _

He read it through at least three times before swearing softly to himself. He jumped up, walked over to his pallet and then, slowly swung back around towards the parchment. With another muttered curse, he sank back down, studying the verses, quill in hand.

---

_A hundred swords,_ Bowie thought, hollowly. He stared at the crackling flames of the fire. He had only made that proud boast… was it two days ago now? How far away it seemed. How arrogant it had been. In his haste he had left the castle with near only his friends. And not even all of those. Rohde of course had stayed behind. Claude, May… Slade.

He would not deny it. Now that Astral had been taken, he wondered sometimes. Wondered if there had been anything in Slade's enigmatic warning. A conspiracy. Well, why not? The Galamani had taken Astral very effectively. Who was to say that they hadn't had inside help? But who? Graig was a pathetic minister, truly, but he was loyal to Granseal. Of that, Bowie felt assured. Mrell?

He didn't know that old man well enough to judge. But what would drive a loyal general of Granseal, a man who had fought the kingdom's enemies for at least forty years, to betrayal? He hunched his shoulders. The night was chill, and these contemplations all the colder. If not Mrell or Graig, then who? _Slade?_ No… He shook his head.

_A hundred swords… More like half that, total. More like forty than fifty, even. _Most of his friends and bare dozen other swords gathered from the guards. Mostly unblooded or only just so. _But there are Gerhalt's forces. I neglected that consideration before, but if we link up with his forces, we at least have enough men to resist any attacks that the Galamani may throw at us. _

It was a plan he needed now. A plan to save Sir Astral. And to stop another disastrous war from happening, just like the last one. _I didn't speak to Kronos enough… Kazin may have his measure, but what can I do to insure that the lords of Galam bend the knee? Lord Zocc seemed reasonable enough, but how much sway does he hold with the rest? Would he even be willing to sue for peace? _

Bowie simply didn't know. He could argue, of course, that since the Galamani had abducted Sir Astral, he had washed out that insult in blood back at the Rhyl. But that would just lead to the Galamani digging up some ancient forgotten insult. And war would be inevitable if that happened, those sniping accusations. It would not serve. _But then what? _His jaw felt hard as a rock, as he felt it, all along the bone.

Lives would be wasted, in war. There would be too much lost. _Everyone will have their own version of the lonliest man in Grans if we let another war happen. _

He sighed, looking up at the sky. The day had dawned, bright and clear from the damp night and Bowie had not found an answer despite his lack of sleep. With a grunt, he rose, knowing that he'd have to act now, anyway. He nearly staggered for a step or so, so stiff was his hunched back. _I will not run back to suffer Graig's smirks,_ he resolved. _I will make this work. I will save Sir Astral and spill as little blood as I can. If war wasn't inevitable even before I marched..._ That was a dark thought, but what other course was there in Grans? The Galamani had dishonoured them, and he, Bowie, had shamed them in turn. _Bowie the Butcher_.

He stepped forward, past the ring of his fire and found Gyan standing guard. The dwarf was a stout-hearted fellow, but evidently not immune to the strains of such duty; evidenced by his snores. Bowie clapped him lightly on the shoulder.

With something between a snort and a cry, Gyan dropped his axe, stumbled to the ground, brought it up, and chuckled weakly.

_He'll have to do better than that, if war is to come. _ "Gyan," he said. "You ought to have gotten some sleep." He held up a hand, waving off the dwarf's immediate response. "Be that as it may. Bring me Ch..." He hesitated for a moment, abruptly pressed in another direction. Different council. _A duty I've put off since we won yesterday. _"Bring me Kazin."

The red-bearded dwarf bowed low, and hurried off. Bowie freed his sword in its sheath, pulled it out, looked at the blade, looked at what he could see of his face in the polished metal. _I look tired. I look a grim man. _He sighed. The burgenoning thoughts in his soul on the pointless waste of war, it was making him old before his time. He still had friends. He still had Granseal to love. _Prospects. I still... I still have Elis. _Not that it was ever a matter that he had spoken to the princess about, the king... nor indeed had he ever spoken to his friends. Not even Sarah or Jaha. _I never had a hope of that until recently..._

But now was not the time for pondering his lady. Now was the dawn of a new day, a new era, in all likliehood, a new war. Bowie had to be ready to meet it. He needed to prove as strong as the steel in his sword. _Else, I may as well go back to Granseal and resign in Zellar's favor. _The ghost of a smile flitted across his lips.

He heard the steps, but didn't bother to turn. "Bowie." Kazin's voice sounded slightly uncertain.

After allowing another moment of weakness to elapse, Bowie turned to face his elven friend. "Kazin." His rust-brown robes were rumpled, his face was drawn, not as guarded as it usually was. His shoulders stooped slightly, his eyes ringed with darkness. "You look awful."

The mage shook his head. "Just... tired."

Bowie smiled. "Indeed." He gestured towards the fire. "Sit." Kazin gave him a curious glance, but did as he was bid. Bowie stalked over, planning to sit himself, but at the last moment, he changed his mind. He clasped his hands together. "Kazin... what you did yesterday... that was... well, frankly, it was incredible. It was insane... or so I would be saying if it had not won the battle for us. That is what makes a leader different from a common soldier. One who can harness such a chance, though a chance it always remains."

Kazin's face drew itself up slightly. He looked more strained than usual, but a bit more guarded again. "Thank you. Is that what you wanted to tell me?"

"No." Bowie sat, ignoring the early morning dew. "I wanted to call you to my council."

Kazin's jaw twitched. "You have a strategy?"

Bowie paused, nonplussed. The mage sounded almost defensive that his advice was being solicited. He had meant it as an honor. "There are many things to be considered. You spent the most time with Lord Kronos..."

"Kronos wants this war," Kazin said. "And no, I doubt Lord Zocc could overule him. Even if the Green Baron could, I am far from certain that he'd want to. And after yesterday... well, anyone who speaks against the war will be called a coward, possibly a traitor."

_Weeper! Cravenly weeper!_ "Negotiations cannot be wholly useless. We can call on support from Granseal."

"Graig was not enthusiastic about you coming this far."

"When we tell him of the troop movements on the Rhyl..."

"He'll conclude that your march made that inevitable. Seizing Astral was as good as declaration of war, and Graig is not like to want to move the bulk of troops from the city." Bowie was quiet, stung by the accuracy of Kazin's comments. "And an offer of negotiations will just make the Galamani think you are weak."

_A leader indeed. _"Kronos was not the only lord vying for power in Granseal."

Kazin arched a brow. "If you can find a man willing to use your assistance, I congratulate you, but I wouldn't count on it. Kronos's bitterest rival is more like to spit in your face than to accept such a dishonorable proposal."

"Are you telling me that peace is useless?"

"No, and you know that. I'm telling you that it's not achievable."

Bowie looked for a moment at Kazin, a frown on his lips. The mage's voice had been peculiarly sharp. Not as though they were having a tense discussion of limited possibilities, but more as though... _Mayhaps its just the futility of the situation. _"Are you alright?"

Kazin looked away. "Just tired."

Bowie sighed. "Well, I really wanted your words on two matters." He paused, regretful that he had to consider this next angle. But tactics, he understood. "The Yeeli."

Kazin's composure finally faltered definitively. A look a mild startlement on his face, then a flash of interest. His mouth smoothed out. "Will they attack you, you mean?" Bowie nodded, and the mage was quiet for several minutes. Finally he said, "Not you. Not after you cut down King Galam." Kazin's hands clenched, but he continued in a perfectly normal voice, "They won't be so quick to forgive Granseal. But they won't attack you. Nor," he added, abruptly, "will they help you. You are Gransi, after all."

It was more than Bowie had expected. _It would be wrong to use the Yeeli, anyway. We made this problem, we should shed the blood righting it. _But at the same time, he could hear the voice of the old man in his mind yet again. _There are no crimes when you are the only one left. _"We need to get word back to the city," he burst out, trying to blot out the memory. "It's an important mission, and one that probably won't be without danger. I want you to lead it."

Kazin said nothing. For a moment he looked at the ground. After a while, he said, "Yesterday, you would have asked Chester to do this. Or Jaha." Bowie said nothing to that, knowing it to be true. Knowing that there was nothing to be said. Kazin finally grunted. "I suppose it's your perrogative. Who do you want me to take?"

Bowie sighed in a relief. For a moment, he'd feared that the mage might refuse. "Randolf, you'll need a strong arm and I don't need him here. And Rick, I think, will round off the party nicely." He started to stand and then said, "Oh, and I nearly forgot. Sarah of course."

Kazin stood, his face pale. "You think it wise to remove a healer from the front?"

"We're strongly camped here, and unlikely to come to blows soon. I have sufficient healers to risk removing one."

Kazin's jaw twitched again. His voice took on a very deliberate quality. "I think that Sarah might prefer to stay where she could be more useful."

Bowie shook his head. "Wrong, for once, Kazin. I know that Sarah's been down lately. She needs to get away from all this. A brief visit to the city will be great for her."

Kazin stood there, and his jaw twitched. Just as it seemed that he meant to do nothing, he jerked his head down in a quick nod. "As... you wish. Incidentally," he added, over his shoulder, walking away, "I think that Luke's been wanting to talk to you."

Bowie shook his head. "Of course. Bedoe. I forgot about that. But now more than ever..." He ground his teeth. He'd deal with that when he had a spare moment. "Kazin," he shouted. "Start as soon as you can. Time is against us." The mage, further off now, raised his arm in acknowledgment of the command.

Bowie looked after him, then slowly paced around the fire. The smoke was rising off of the wood. Fire could be used to for life, but also it was always the precursor of bloodshed. He sighed. The others would want to know what happened next. They'd want to know if they would fight, if it would come to war. "Not yet," he whispered, staring into the distance. "Not just yet." Bowie smiled sadly. If it went that far, as it seemed that it must, at least then he was good at war. He was that.


	11. Chapter 10: The City of Granseal

Chapter 10:

The City of Granseal

The days of this mission were a torment to Kazin. Under any other circumstance, he would have been eager to reach Granseal as soon as possible, and thus to dispense with this distasteful duty as soon as he could. But such was not to be.

Ordinarily, the return journey to Granseal wouldn't have taken much more than a day and perhaps a half. However, Bowie had made him responsible for the well-being of the three travelling under his leadership. Bowie, in giving him this misison, had indirectly made him responsible for the safety of every single man and woman in the field. And though it was unlikely, he could not neglect the possibility of any danger on the return journey. None of them had expected the abduction of Sir Astral after all. _And Sir Astral was my equal thrice over. _

Morbidly he pondered the way that the shaman had taken the old wizard. He'd forgotten the ratman's name, but certainly not the spectacle. _He had an iron amulet that completely overwhelmed Astral's senses. A relic, of the Ancients, I suppose. _Kazin sighed and put it out of his mind. There was no good in futile wonderings.

The upshot of war was a slow, cautious journey to Granseal. A trip that once would have taken less than two days at any kind of stretch was now at least four days long. Four days in Sarah's company. _Four days in my own company, if it comes to that. _

He sat, knelt, studying the ground dispassionately for signs of any movement in the area. Not that it would mean much. It could be Yeeli war parties, a hidden patrol of the Galamani, Gerhalt's returning forces, anything. It could even be a group of travelers, for that matter. The ground was a bit more scuffed here and there, but as far as a timeline was concerned... It could be anything. A trilling sound broke his concentration. Kazin's eyes lighted on a fat robin, puffing its chest out for the benefit of another.

"There's something sad about those birds." He had not heard the sound of footsteps.

He glanced back at Sarah, felt his cheek twitch, and grunted. He rose to his feet. "There's something sad about all couples." She had nothing to say to that, so after standing there for a moment or so with her, Kazin walked forward, trying to work the stiffness out of his joints. _Nothing. Always nothing. _ "Winter is coming," he observed, more to himself than any other present. "The mornings taste of frost."

He looked about the encampment they'd made the night before, weary. It was scarce an ecampment worth speaking of, just a slight clearing they'd made do with on the very edge of the forest. Kazin did not much care for the location, truth be told. There was something vaguely disquieting about trees that had stood at the apex of the three great tribes of Grans for untold centuries. But they offered cover. From any enemies and from the weather.

A war in winter. Kazin had faced worse prospects, but not many. He'd have to hope that Bowie could achieve victory before autumn faded away. He ground to a halt in midstep. _Bowie. _Already the guilt was gnawing at him. He'd treated Bowie worse than he deserved. When it came down to that, though was their anybody he'd treated with any degree of fairness that night?

_It was ridiculous. I resented... I only wanted..._ He clenched his staff hand for a moment, breathing hard. He couldn't even say that he resented the way he'd been treated, prior to the attack on the Rhyl. Oh, he could, but he had not been treated poorly. Kazin had talked to most of them, concealed his own displeasure much as he was wont to do now. _Damn it, I was just trying to survive outside of Bowie's graces. I was just..._ His shoulders slumped half an inch. _I was just..._

But such categorization would serve him not. It was enough to know that his response the night after the Rhyl had been misguided at best. _There is some cause for legitimate irritation to be sure; Chester, Bowie, Jaha and Sarah are all particularly arrogant in their dealings with each other juxtaposed to the rest of us, and Jaha is not graceful about it. Nonetheless, amusing to talk to though I may be, how can I expect myself to be worthy of note without having done something of note?_ It did not absolve the others of blame, it merely tightened the links of blame that wove them all together.

With a grunt he raised and lowered one shoulder. Then he did the same for the other. Sarah said from behind him, her voice slighlty subdued, "Rick's jus-"

"Fearless leader!" The centaur's own cry drowned out Sarah's voice. Kazin turned to face Rick, and as he did so, the centaur brought his gallop to a halt. "There's no immediate evidence of enemy movements on the plains."

Kazin refrained from pointing out that on the plains, there could be no other signs of movement. "Very well. We move out then. Rick, take point. Randolf at the rear." With that he stepped forward, resigned more than resentful, to the necessary formation. A centaur was ideal for taking point, if only because of how quickly a centaur could get from one spot to another. Scouting, leading the group forward, running back to warn them, these were all valuable qualities. Kazin was hardly adept at concealment, and he doubted that Randolf was either. Anyway, the elderly dwarf leading the rear lessened the risks of ambush.

And that left him and Sarah as the magic users together in the middle, prepared to respond either way. Kazin tried not to mind the necessity of such contact, and he had been mildly surprised to find that he didn't actually mind the contact. Sarah was enjoyable enough company, though they didn't talk a lot on the march. ... No, indeed the problem was in the realization of the distances between them. Sarah had Bowie to occupy her and the context of growing up in Granseal, unlike Kazin. In permitting himself to brood, Kazin could slip into a melancholy reverie, but that aspect of their friendship rarely seemed all that vital when he was engaging with her. And that, he had to admit ruefully, was almost more depressing than the fact of the distances themselves.

Sarah cleared her throat. "I didn't realize... I mean..." Kazin glanced over at her, and immediately sharpened his attention on the fact that she was twisting her staff in her hands. For her to be ill at ease struck him as most unusual. "What you said back there," she went on at last, "sounded rather bitter."

Kazin arched an eyebrow, pondering the best way to answer that. It was a complex subject to embark on, and there was certainly some information that Sarah had best be kept from. The question, essentially was almost unrelated to him in some respects, and yet not others. He coughed. "Perhaps it was an extrapolation. When one looks upon cognizant romance, one sees a..." _Bah. This clinical phraeseology is doing nothing for her._ "A... It's like nature. The natural has a perfect natural union through which it works, and people attempt to mimic that. But our mimicry is still only an illusion. Still an imperfection" He paused for a moment, pondering whether or not to go on, when he realized just how pompous that must have sounded.

Sarah bit her lip, looking as though she were trying to contain a smile. "Is this all... firsthand?"

"Largely not." Kazin looked back ahead. He did not particularly feel that this was a subject on which he would benefit from talking to Sarah. "I've found little time for such things in the course of my life."

At that, she did laugh. "You're hardly an old man."

He didn't know what to say to that. "No, I suppose not." She was silent for a while after that, and Kazin was grateful. He enjoyed talking to Sarah, truly he did, but there some things that a man must hoard to himself. _And her... her fondness for me is in no wise better for her than it is for me. She takes so little of what I could give, but I cannot reciprocate such an arrangment. _

There were times, it seemed to Kazin, when a man's heart might burst from no apparent cause. Not the stress of life, for Kazin had been dealing with that as long as he was alive. Being of elven descent, he didn't even have lines on his face to give appearance to the struggle, merely hollowed bones. Not the stress of love unrequited, for Kazin had accepted his lot in life. There were times, not many, but a few, like that night where the self pity controlled his thinking, but he recognized now, that most of the arrogance he saw was in perception only. And the real arrogance was mostly unconscious, mostly harmless. No, Kazin had learned to accept much. He talked to people, he learned things, he understood the nature of living. If he couldn't measure up, then he would be beaten down, and that Kazin could accept. _Until a brief moment when I did measure up. That took me aback._ He snorted, almost amused.

It was not even the stress of this mission. Working so closely with Sarah revealed things to him, the warmth of her pesonality, her belief in the equality of life, her vitality, all these things that he vaguely coveted, but there was little of the bitterness until he was left with the night to survive, on his own, shading his baser desires. It was... humanity, perhaps that could so distort the truths of the heart. It was the limits of life, the limits of perception that endlessly showed a man his own banality, his own faults. It was the eternal merciful ability to misjudge things, to be distanced from the perfection of the elements of nature that could endlessly break a man's heart. _In our imperfection, we are truly perfect. And that is a fact that we cannot accept. That is a vision of terror. And so we break our own hearts, just to survive. _

"Rick," he said tonelessly.

The fresh-faced centaur held back for a moment, looking over his shoulder. "Fearless leader?"

Kazin smiled a bit sadly at that. Rick had been calling him that ever since he had been summoned to Kazin's side for the sake of this mission. _Bowie's way of showing me that he values me. And the irony is, I spent too long waiting for what was always there. _"I'm not fearless, Rick."

"Oh, but you lept into the very maelstrom of violence in the center of the Rhyl, my lord. Your courage is of a greater kind than most."

Kazin snorted laughter. "And it scared me stiff once I realized what I was doing. Be that as it may, I want you to keep your eyes open. Any guarded spot that you see, by a river, a few trees, anywhere that has a bit of cover, we'll stop there immediately for the day." He glanced up at the sun. It was starting to descend from its highest peak in the sky. "I don't mean to be on these plains by the time we must stop if we can avoid it. The Galamani will slay any Granserians they see, and there's no cover here in the night when we must sleep."

"Ah." Rick nodded. "As you command, fearless leader. Shall I roam ahead?"

"Stay within shouting distance," Kazin dismissed him. The centaur threw a sharp salute and a bright smile before bursting off into a sharp gallop. Kazin supposed they'd be walking for some hours yet; any obvious cover would be visible on a plain where there was so little of it. Indeed, he could take comfort in that. Kazin did not find dignity in struggle, but he felt absolved by it. _The strain of any struggle is enough to slowly erase all that consists of self. The power of self is so lessened that strength returns, even in the weakness. _

"Are you alright?"

Kazin started at the sudden intrusion of Sarah's voice. "I... yes. Why do you ask?" Silently he cursed himself. Obviously she asked because she thought he might not be well, and was concerned by it. The politness, however, would draw her out. And, frankly, that was the one thing that Kazin found still frayed the edges of his phislosphical equinamity. Her efforts to reach out to him as a friend, like this. Friendly conversation he could accept, but this...

"You've been very quiet." Her tone quite clearly said that there was more to it than that, but she added nothing further.

"There hasn't been much I've needed to say," he replied, too brusquely. Her comment rankled him. It stung. _She would not question Bowie if he were giving the orders now. _"As it comes to that, it might be best if we save conversation for later. Sound carries out here, my la... Sarah." She frowned at him, but did not reply. That in itself startled Kazin. Sarah was not the sort to bottle up her feelings. It was part of what he loved in her.

The march continued on in silence, and Kazin's bad humor started returning to him. _Bloody fool. She'll never respect my accomplishments no matter what I do; I'm no bloody hero like Chester is, or Jaha even or... Bowie. _Oh, Kazin didn't grudge Bowie his honors, Kazin was done with dissembling. The occasional rage he felt for Bowie was mostly unconnected from what the man himself had accomplished. But still. He glanced at Sarah out of the corner of his eye. Was it so much to ask that he be given some credit for his own acts of valor?

A moment later, he realized the reversal, and almost gave vent to a burst of full laughter. But he restrained himself, having no wish to make himself anymore the butt of his own joke. He shifted his shoulders slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position for his pack. He could accept the contradiction. When you came right down to it, Kazin supposed that he could accept just about anything, when properly distanced from himself. It was all forgotten a minute later. Everything was. He paused for a moment, leaning on his staff. The sun was high in the sky, and getting hotter. "We'll stop long enough for a drink," he commanded quietly.

The three of them stopped, knowing that Rick wouldn't get too far ahead without checking to see if they were keeping up. Kazin took out a jug of water, swishing it around a bit, and then he uncorked it, offering it first to Randolf. The craggy-faced dwarf took it without comment, and took a brief pull at it. Kazin shrugged slighlty as he handed it to Sarah. Randolf seemed to have no end of stamina. Sarah's drink was a bit longer than Randolf's had been, and she looked slightly guilty as she handed the water back to him. Kazin would not have cared if she'd drunk all of it. He lifted the jug to his lips, and stood there for a minute, feeling the weight of what he was about to do. To drink water. To reaffirm his own survival, to accept the cycle of rejuvination. A heavy task indeed. He drank, one mouthful or two swallows, near enough that it came to no difference. Then he recorked it, slipped it back into his pack and began trudging forward again without comment.

He glanced over at Sarah again. The guilt was gone from her face. The frown. Even the distance had left her eyes. It was just pysical exertion now, first this step, then the next one, and, oh yes, do not forget the one after that. Kazin turned his eyes back ahead, comforted by the single universal truth of things; it was all forgotten a moment later.

---

Kazin was finding more and more solace in his pen. His writings. Occasionally, the realization of that disturbed him, if for no other reason than the fact that he wasn't very good at it. _Good at it. Huh. _He might have laughed at that, but truly what was humorous in it? All people had their own vaguely pathetic habits. And Kazin had much to be grateful for. The end quality of his writing was not the point, merely writing was enough to make him feel all the more clearheaded. It was the profundity of extrapolating one's own soul, one's own nature, that led to the momentary release of the banal. The utter pointlessness of every construct of the mind.

Kazin was not old by his people's standards, but even so, he had lived in war, in turmoil. He had lived on _Grans. _He had seen the moment that struck anyone, just before death claimed them. It was banality then, always and eternal. There was nothing beyond the swirls of flesh that a man or a woman could call their own. And yet, if such were the case, then how so did people so thoroughly construct the rest of their lives?

Kazin hunched slighlty closer to the fire, his nose almost touching the paper, his lips moving slightly. He had moved on to a sujbect that intrigued his attention most greatly. Quickly he sketched out a few lines, a hard jaw there, perhaps the slightest amount of too long hair... yes. A king, he deemed the figure before him. A reasonable man, a most reasonable man, but hard. A king of justice. _And yet,_ thought Kazin, raptly engaged in his character study _how then does justice not consume itself? A truly just king would be a tyrant, in the proving of justice. _Kazin felt that he could draw some comfort from that. All souls were equally wretched and wracked with torture. _Only in pain and death are we truly equal, and banality is the ultimate equalizer. _

"What are you writing?"

It took him a moment to realize that the question was directed at him. As soon as he did, a slow flush crept through his cheeks. He had grown used to his introspective interlude, and to have another voice intrude upon it was... unsettling. And yet, it was Sarah's voice. That was not displeasing. And yet, the question touched on something that he didn't like so much. _There is weakness in what I'm doing. I've suffered, and all men make philosophy out of suffering. _He felt his eyes watering, felt the tears beginning to gather. He was sitting, and yet his knees still shook, wanting to bring him down to some sort of genuflection. _And in suffering, men fall to their knees and weep._

He looked away from the paper, into Sarah's maroon eyes. Such expressive eyes, really. Beautiful? Perhaps. That was not a question Kazin presently knew the answer to. But it was something else he loved about her. That earnestness with which she'd look at you, yes that was something that he loved. Something that _validated._ "Everything," he muttered, his voice hoarse, looking into the fire.

A line crinkled the fine white skin of her forehead. "What did you say?"

He was still for a moment longer. And another moment after that. The shift and weave of the fire was easier than admitting that once again, he was guilty of temporization. Guilty of being a _man_. They'd stopped here, in this little grove of trees for the night, and had even decided to risk the fire. There hadn't been a choice in that of course; the nights were getting colder and only dead men camped with no fires when the ground started to freeze. It was a scenic backdrop he realized. The few trees sheltering the flickering fire, the four of them huddled as close to it as they could for warmth, the mountain stream to the east. And they'd made good time too, they could probably reach Granseal tomorrow. _And now I don't want the journey to end. _He thought about weeping again, and then realized that he'd let the silence go on.

"I... sorry," he croaked at last, still hoarsely overcome with himself. "I've been focusing more than writing."

Sarah arched a sardonic brow. "I'm not certain that I grasp the difference."

He laughed, and for a moment the sound was free of condescension, of bitterness, of the broken being that he was. For a moment he _laughed. _"The meaning," he said. "I've been extrapolating meaning. This, right now? A character. An idea, a concept. All of that." He waved his arms about. "Everything is the meaning, because people gave rise to the meaning. People define all. People are the ultimate meaning of everything."

"That's... philosophic of you." She sounded more bewildered than angry. And Kazin realized abruptly that she might have had cause for anger. Not just at his oblique rambling now, but the whole of the journey thus far fell into a different perspective. They were, for better or worse, acquaintances. He wasn't willing to go so far as friends, because their connection was more tenuous than that. Sarah was affectionate with him, because she was affectionate with everyone she liked. And she told him things, yes, but most people told Kazin things. He was in some fashion aloof, and that seemed to draw people to him. But even he could rise to higher pinnacles of aloofness. And never had Sarah been more alone than on this journey. Her thoughts were of Bowie no doubt, and Kazin had been short with her.

On impulse he said, "You have a very intriguing nose. It calls attention to itself. Makes a... a line."

The eyebrow shot back up. "... Thanks."

He searched himself for the rush of anger that should have accompanied that exchange. Stammering compliments was hardly something that Kazin wanted to make a point of doing, but the bitterness was not there. Not presently there. He shook his head, fixing his attention wholly on her. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, more easily this time. "I suppose that I've just had a lot on my mind." On the whole, he was rather satisfied with that little stroke. It was true, of course, but Sarah would presume that he was speaking of the stress of command.

She nodded, her own face relaxing slightly. The moment stirred some disquiet back into Kazin's soul, though. _All of these small lies that I tell her... for love. It would be one thing if I could claim that it was just wrong, but it's stupid as well. And yet, I..._ He blew out a bit of breath. Admitting the truth of the situation to Sarah was not an option, of course. It would be bad enough for him, to say nothing of her. And just when they all needed their focus the most. No, Kazin would not wreck Grans for the sake of his own misguided feelings. He knew his duty. _And my own fear._ "People are lines, you know," he said.

Sarah's brows rose again. "Beg pardon?"

He made a weak sounding chuckle. A dry sound. "Sorry." His mouth quirked. "I seem to keep doing that. It's just a thought I've been having."

"Well?" He looked back at her, not quite catching her meaning. She smiled slightly, though there was something wistful about the expression. "It sounds interesting. What do you mean by that?"

In another moment he was choked up with emotion. "People are lines," he rasped, hoping that he could diffuse his own tension by answering the question. "Lines. And lines are..." He could feel the skin on his face folding, deepening. "_Refractions_. Lines are but refractions of an illusion. There's nowhere to go on a line, nowhere to be. There's only... pain there."

There was silence for a long moment and Kazin slowly realized what he'd done. _Fool. Bloody fool. I've tipped my hand too plainly; how can she square that with anything she might believe herself? I just said that existence is suffering, and she..._ He swallowed hard. It wouldn't be so bad if he could just make up his bloody mind. He could be self-indulgent, self-pitying, and generally pathetic or he could be philisophically accepting. Jumping back and forth between the two was fast exhausting all his strength.

Sarah asked quietly, "Do you really think there's that much pain in the world? I haven't." She looked into the fire, her face showing signs of dissolving into another bout of tears. "But I'm not sure anymore."

_Because your heart's been just as wounded as mine. Fucking poetic. _"I don't think Bowie would disagree with me," he said with breezy cruelty. He could feel a little shame at that; it was a cheap shot, and he didn't want to hurt Sarah either. _Dammit, hurting you is the last thing I want to do. I'd cherish you, if I had half the bloody chance. _He ignored the shame though. He hadn't on the night of Ryhl, that was part of what had made him so bitter then, so defensive. And it felt good to be assertive for once. _Another little betrayal. Well when have any of them offered me the full range of friendship they should have? _He knew he was slipping back into irrational anger, but he ignored that too.

Sarah's face twitched, and in a moment Kazin could feel himself softening again. _Bowie and Sarah_. He tried to remind himself of that, though it was hardly true. Bowie seemed to have no idea how Sarah hung on his every word. Then again, Bowie seemed not to realize just how compelling he was to the opposite sex generally. _Bowie and Sarah._ He tried to reach for the hurt again. The hurt made him angry, and anger he preferred to pain. But he was closer to despair than anger now. It was disgraceful, how easily she moved him, how easily such quick flickers of expression from her made him want to forgive her everything. _And what's to forgive? That she loves me not? _He stared blackly at the ground.

This had always been the worst part of the journey. The two nights they had already stopped for, in the making of this journey had been some of the most miserable that Kazin could recall ever having suffered. Sarah's thoughts were always distant, her endless longing never far from the surface. And the fact that she was so open about it was partly his own fault, he had to acknowledge. Sarah was too open for dissembling anyway, but he had made it easy for her to open up to him. She considered him a friend to whom she could confide her innermost feelings, and while he doubted she had any particular relationship with Randolf or Rick, he himself was already here. That was all it took. The situation wasn't Bowie's fault, it wasn't Sarah's fault, it wasn't even Kazin's fault. And that was the worst part of all. There was no blame to be found anywhere. No blame to find, to release the tension. No, that Kazin had to fabricate.

His voice was hard as he finally said, "It's easier to mark your own pain than it is happiness. Easier to notice."

She looked at him again, her eyes luminous in the deepening chill of a dark evening. "It doesn't take that much to be happy though. Being with people that you... love."

The little catch in her voice spoke volumes. Kazin knew that he should step into the role of comforting friend here, but he abruptly resented the assumption. Plenty of people spilled their confidences upon him, and he didn't coddle them all this way. "So it is," he drawled. "What about competing definitions of love? What about differing expectations, misclassfied and misunderstood emotions? Pain spins itself easily."

Sarah opened her mouth then closed it. To his baffled rage, she didn't look hurt or even shocked. "What's the solution then? Inaction?"

For a moment he felt dizzy. His hands were suddenly sweating and the pen slid from between his fingers."If that's what it takes initially, then yes." He was careful to keep the trembling from his voice. _Steady man. It means nothing. _And of course, it couldn't mean anything. Because the only man that Sarah had ever wanted was Bowie. Or a hero, now that he chanced to think on it. That indeed might be the key to Sarah's affections. A heroic figure. His gut clenched at the thought of it. It was not the desire he resented so much as his own shameful weakening to that point. "You do," he said coldly, "whatever it takes to maintain a level of hurt you can live with."

She flinched, making Kazin feel absurdly angry. If she would just defend herself from his assertions, regardless of which one of them was right, well that would be something, but no, she had to let his comments stand unchallenged. And it wasn't the fact that he had hurt her again that enraged him, that he resented. It was the happiness they had shared together, limited though it might be. It was the friendship. "Sarah," he began, resolved, but to his horror, he could feel the emotion building up in his voice. In a moment, his eyes were wet with the desire to weep. _Not here. Please not here. _"M-my... I me-mean..." He took a deep breath. "It's j-just that it works f-f-for me."

It was disgraceful, how much he could debase himself, how much he could beg. _But a man must own his shame. It is all that he has. _The tears stung at his eyes. He had always been asked to give up more, too much. And yet, in this cruel world, he could not prevent himself from loving. Why must everything strike at a man's soul? _Sarah..._ "I came back didn't I?" he muttered, not really sure what he was saying. Came back to what? To her endless questions? To her pain, to her needs? Or to his own? _Bowie and Sarah._

He could feel the tears gathering, squeezing, pushing against his control. _Bowie and Sarah. _Sarah loved Bowie because he was stronger. That was the only reason, the reason over the world for why a woman gave her heart to one man rather than another. Women had to do that, to increase the survival rates of their own children. Magic had taken some of the dangers of childbirth and lessened them, but that was still a powerful impetus. He took a deep breath, all thoughts of writing forgotten. He had reached out to Sarah tonight. And he'd hurt her too. And he didn't know which one made him more feel like crying. He cleared his throat, searching for something to say. _Be quiet or you'll just make it worse. _

Surprisingly, Sarah spoke up then. "Thank you, Kazin. I think I needed to hear that." And she smiled at him, with such real sweetness that it broke Kazin's heart.

_Needed to hear that my foot. You say that now because Bowie isn't here to get angry at. _The anger gripped him again. "And what," he began when a low chuckle cut him off.

"You say a lot mage, but it doesn't all add up. And that's what people are." He turned to see Randolf looking at the two of them, amusement written across his craggy features. "Let me tell you a secret," he resumed in a bear-like growl. "Get to be a decent age and you'll have seen your share of grief. And of happiness too. People stop meaning that much after a while." He shrugged. "Still, some are nicer 'n others. Lines you say? No. People are the sum of their parts. Sometimes that's a greater sum, happens to be lower on occassion as well. Makes no matter."

Kazin turned to look at the dwarf, and for a moment, he thought his heart would burst all over again. Only this time in joy. "Because," Kazin rasped in excitement, "pain is _notional_."

Randolf's face was set in a series of disapproving wrinkles, but he nonetheless managed to give Kazin quite a significant glance. Kazin bowed his head, for a moment quite overcome. His truth was... absolved in Randolf's truth. Yet it was not excused, not forgotten, not explained. It was linked. It still had an edge. He lifted his gaze to the sky, his eyes full of his unshed tears. _Oh gods, thank you for this. _

Sarah harrumphed in the background. "I don't like the idea that you just stop caring," she muttered.

Kazin just shook his head, drew his knees up to his chest. He was even smiling now, and the realization of that struck him as particularly absurd. But Randolf had spoken a truth. Not just a truth, but a transcendence. A geometry of words. For that, Kazin would be grateful. And if he could just believe what the dwarf had asserted, well did that not absolve his own pain? He owned it. It was notional to the point of being definitional to his being and no other's. It was as much a lie as it was a truth. And in that was a release. A man might fall to his knees and weep in exchange for such a gift.

"Sarah," he said, still shaking his head, looking across at her. In this single moment, his heart was full. "You do whatever works. Whatever shows itself to you to have benefit to _your _aims. That's all."

Her face had stilled, become pensive. She opened her mouth, closed it, turned her attention down to what was left of her ration of meat for the night. "You always say something like that." She made a wry face. "Because it works, right?"

For a moment, Kazin felt tense, but even he knew that she had only meant it jokingly from the first. Sarah had no idea what truth she had just stumbled on. _It works to keep you to the extent that I do._ That thought made him want to curl back up into hard misery again, but he couldn't do it. He'd exhausted himself of misery, at least for a few hours. The bitterness would doubtless return, but for now Kazin could relax back into philisophical equnamity.

The soft sound of clip-clopping hooves precluded any further response on Kazin's part, and for that he was grateful. It had not been an enormously productive conversation; it had merely brought him into closer contact with his patheticism. And if they kept on at this point, Kazin ran the risk of hurting himself again. And thus hurting her. And if he kept repeating that experience, his heart just wouldn't be able to take it. Giving out would be the worst thing he could do.

Rick collapsed into a sitting position by the fire, his legs curled beneath him, his face more tired than anything else. "Cold night," he said, his tone as cheerful as ever. "Good thing I drew first watch, eh?" He commenced to silently struggling with the clasps of his armor, trying to shift it off for the night. And that, Kazin had to admit, was reasonable. It would have to be draining to walk around armored all day, let alone all night. Nonetheless it made him uneasy. There was no reason to suppose an attack was imminent, but still...

With a careless shrug, very nearly happy, Kazin rose to his feet, his staff swinging from his hand. "Well, it's my watch then. I bid you goodnight." Sarah nodded, her eyes distant, biting her lip. Kazin had noticed that she did that whenever she was concerned. It made him feel slightly guilty. He shouldn't really, but he knew well enough that he'd run close to the point of foolishness tonight. He paused long enough to bend back down and tuck the scroll he'd been working on into his robe. He might want to resume the study later, though it suddenly seemed a ludicrously self-indulgent act of idiocy, or perhaps to work on something else. It couldn't hurt, anyway. With that, he strolled off, his heart lighter than it had been at any recent point he could presently recall.

He knew that he _should_ feel bad at this point. He and Sarah had quarreled, or at least come as close to it as they ever had. But in that, there was release. There was vindication of a man's soul, in such a pain. And pain, as Randolf had pointed out, was notional. A huge smile grew on his face. Distantly, he heard the voices behind him, Sarah pressing for something...

Randolf's gruff tones were clearly audible. "Be back in a minute or so. I need to go piss." At the sound of the stumping steps, Kazin smiled some more.

_Ah. He's looking for me. Man to man, or subordinate to leader? _Kazin didn't slow the pace of his own walk. If Randolf wanted to talk to him, then he could bloody well do it while Kazin was stationed on guard where he ought to be; at the riverside. After a few more long strides, he came to a halt at the bank. The water was beautiful, in the moonlight, he thought. It made him a little regretful that he'd never studied the mastery of the freeze spell. But only a little. There was enough requisite coldness in Kazin's heart for him to not be seriously interested in finding more. He drew in his breath sharply.

_Coldness... yes, that's it. That's why I'm aloof isn't it? Sarah's melted some of the ice, so I'm slipping and dithering badly, but at my core I am... not an emotional personality. _He smiled. That understanding could sustain him.

He heard the heavy crashing sound of Randolf's steps, and turned to greet him. He opened his mouth, and Randolf's fist promptly crashed into it. Kazin went sprawling, feeling slightly dazed. But then the ache set in. The brunt of the blow had been at his jaw, but Randolf's fist had crashed up quickly, catching him in the mouth and nose as well. Kazin shook his head, tired again. "That was forward," he muttered, his voice thick. "Might I ask the occasion?"

"Fuck," Randolf muttered. "You're mercurial." Kazin didn't bother answering him. He felt very little at the moment, and he thought it best to let Randolf say whatever it was he wanted to say; though he was not particularly angry, he wasn't particularly eager to repeat the experience either. And if he let himself take control, anger _might_ start to fray the edges of his calm, and Kazin would rather put that off as long as he absolutely could. "Here," Randolf said at last, offering Kazin a hand. "Get up."

He accepted the gesture, noting the strength in the dwarf's hands. Admiring the strength within him. "Sarah's going to wonder what happened to my jaw, you know." It was a statement of fact; he could already feel it beginning to swell.

Randolf shifted from foot to foot, but he seemed pretty unapologetic. "Listen," he growled. "I saved you back at the fire because you were floundering around. If you want to know, personally I'm kind of disgusted by what you did back there. You were one step away from taking advantage of her, and whatever Bowie thinks or doesn't think about her, that wouldn't excuse you." Randolf sighed a little. "Still. Sorry for you giving you that crack, but..."

"Why? I deserved it."

"See here," Randolf rambled on, scarcely acknowleging Kazin's comment, "I didn't do it for you. I didn't even do it for Bowie, if that's what you're thinking. I did it because you were given a job, and that's to command. And I got enough professional pride to do what I can to keep you from fucking up." Kazin arched an eyebrow, but Randolf wasn't done. "You're not a bad commander, mage. You've got a fair head on your shoulders, for most things, and I've seen you fight. You're good. Better than a mage ought to be. But your problem is that you get too wrapped up in yourself." Randolf stumped over the river, and dropped his breeches, commencing to relieve himself as he had said he would, back at the fire. "I might've let it go back at the fire, but when you left grinning like an idiot, I thought that the message might not have sunk in." With a grunt, he shifted his weight again, and started to lace his breeches back up. "So. Now you know. Just don't fuck it up, and we won't have to go through this again."

Kazin stood there for a moment, smiling as he considered everything. It didn't add up, of course, but then nothing ever did. Kazin didn't let that bother him. Randolf finished with his breeches, and started to stump away again, when Kazin called out, "But if you meant what you said, that nothing matters that much, that you just can't be bothered by the suffering in the world... well why do anything?"

Randolf turned, and glowered at him, but it was an understanding kind of glower. "Hell," he snapped. "I know what's right."

Kazin nodded, and turned to stand his watch. What was right indeed?

---

Sarah walked quietly along, her heart in her mouth at seeing the strong walls of Granseal. _It's only been a few days. _Ah, but she loved her home. The simple dusty streets she'd grown up, playing in with Jaha, Chester... _Bowie. _She clenched a fistful of her robe, blinking back the involuntary tear that his image summoned up in her.

Bowie... she wasn't certain how to categorize her reactions toward him anymore. Kazin had been right to say that he had other depths than the boy she'd grown up with. _Kazin_. She slid a sidelong over towards him. He strode on, seemingly unburdened by anything. After the last night, though, Sarah had to wonder. Kazin was a little cold, of course. She had always known that he was likely to dismiss anything that didn't involve a great deal of thought and analysis beforehand, such as emotional wants and needs, but of course he had them like anybody else. And last night, he had spoken so bitterly.

She distracted herself, pondering what could drive Kazin of all people out of his comfortable, dry, understated view on life. Of course, he was new to command and that was probably straining him a bit, but surely it wouldn't have actually disturbed him that much? Kazin had always championed the notion that ability was the greatest indicator of a person's worth in any specific capacity. The subtext, of course, being that he had ability. No. Was he in love, perhaps?

The idea of Kazin in love was so amusing, that she gave vent to a peal of lighthearted laughter. He glanced over his shoulder at her, a quizzical eyebrow raised, his face the same as always; long, guarded and handsome.

_Really, _she thought, struck by the idea, _he's just as handsome as Bowie is. Yes..._ That was a possibility that actually had some merit. Kazin was given to a certain amount of self-deprecation, perhaps, but not bitterness. Not melancholy. On the other hand, his nature precluded the possibility of him actually falling in love. If he did, he was certain to resent it. Thus the bitterness? Or had he been approached by some woman? He was, after all, very handsome. That was possible. _But who? He saved Sheela's life, so maybe she..._ But no, Sarah doubted that. Sheela would have been able to talk to him about a relationship in an adult manner, and that was something Kazin would certainly appreciate.

With a shrug, she walked on, idly wondering if it had actually happened. It didn't seem likely, but it was a good way to pass the time. Without lingering on Bowie.Of course, even with Kazin doing his best to cheer her up, forgetting Bowie for a few days was still hard. Particularly given that she didn't know what to do about that anymore. She'd been thinking that she would just tell him, but now with war breaking out again... _But if not now, when? _And she couldn't deny that she wanted Bowie to make the first move either. It's what he should do, at, least.

She tossed her head from side to side, frustrated by her inability to refrain from this line of thought. It was a waste of her energy, if nothing else, and she doubted that Kazin found it very easy to stomach either. That stirred a twinge of guilt in her. She'd relied on him to comfort her, and while that was understandable, it wasn't entirely fair. No wonder he'd gotten a little impatient. It was remarkable, really, that it had taken that long.

Kazin ground to a halt, abruptly, shading his forehead with a hand. "They seem to have security well in hand at least," he remarked. He waved a weary hand. "Alright then. Rick, if you would announce us..."

"Of course, fearless leader." The centaur nodded compliantly once, and strode off, a bright smile on his face. He took approximately half a dozen steps forward, before halting, waving at the wall.

Sarah came to a halt next to Kazin. The mage's eyes were narrowed. "Trosk?" he murmured. Sarah squinted along with him, realizing that he was trying to see who had command on the wall now. _But why? _

Rick was shouting, "An expiditionary force un-" And then he started screaming. Sarah stared dully at the centaur, not quite understanding somehow. He was reeling backwards with a shaft protruding from the joint between shoulder and chest... _They're firing arrows._ The realization gave her a funny little fluttering sensation in her chest. She made a fumbling gesture with her hands, and then started to run forward.

"No!" Hard fingers grabbed at her arm, pulling her backwards. She shrieked as she stumbled, looking backwards at Kazin. She redoubled her efforts to get forward.

"Let me go! Rick! I've got to help him... they're butchering him!"

"And they'll do the same to you!" There was no mistaking the fear in his voice. "If you get in range of their bows, they'll shoot you down." Already his voice was somehow cooling down.

And then Randolf was there, axe gripped firmly in his hands. "Both of you, _shut up_. Look! _They're opening the fucking gates!_"

Sarah's eyes jerked back forward. Rick was staggering away from the walls, but there were what, four or five arrows in him now? She couldn't be certain. But the gates were indeed swinging open, though ponderously. Never had Sarah been so glad for how heavy those gates were. "But why," she heard herself shouting. "There must be some kind of mistake..."

"People don't shoot arrows at you by mistake! One, mayhaps, but not lots!"

Kazin abruptly let go of her arm, and she looked back towards him, ignoring Randolf's increasingly frantic glower. "No," Kazin said, but very quietly, as though to himself. He took a deep breath, and flung himself forward. Sarah took in a horrified breath, prepared to scream. In that moment, something crystallized. Kazin was dry, yes, cold, yes, even rude, but he couldn't prevent himself from caring about people. His warmth he hoarded to himself, and that was perhaps what made him seem to glow around the edges, despite himself. Kazin _loved. _That was all that mattered in him.

He was glowing now, his hands outstretched, and Sarah watched, openmouthed as sheets of heat poured off of him, sizzling, crackling burning. This was a blaze spell like nothing she had ever seen. A veritable wall of flame was crackling out, rising, blocking the arrows, stopping any pursuit party in its tracks. If ever anyone had doubted that Kazin was worthy to serve even as Sir Astral had, let them see this sight.

"Rick," she said, her voice wispy. "He's trying to save him as much as save us all."

"He's doin' his job," Randolf agreed with her, and they stood there a while watching the flames, burning hotter than any flame had a right to. The sight was awe-inspiring for anyone who understood magic at all. It wasn't as simple as just picking up a spell book and learning a few words. It took time, sometimes years, and intense concentration. Not everybody had the gift. And not every practicioner could summon equal amounts of any given element. Kazin's command over fire was truly a spectacle to behold.

And then, he came out of the flames, his back bent a bit, his hair gleaming as brightly as burnished copper might. The heat poured off of his body, but he didn't slow his walk. His jaw was clenched, his face drawn. "Keep moving." Smoke was pouring off of him, and the wall of fire was beginning to recede.

Sarah stared, for a moment overcome at the thought that she knew such a man. Even so clearly weakened, Kazin had never looked more a god. Nor had his eyes ever blazed with as much fury. "Rick..." she said weakly, her own thoughts still too jumbled to speak clearly. "We have to..."

"I tried," he snapped. "But now, keep moving. Just keep moving. Or we're all dead."

Sarah's mind was curiously clear, even if she had trouble speaking, just at this moment. Kazin's hurt was the same as Bowie's. _The only difference, is that Bowie would have found a way to make it work. _

---

Zellar had always found the sound of his boots clacking against the castle stonework soothing. But now, he was in a hurry and a damn uneasy one at that. The Castle seemed far too deserted for it to be natural, and, of course he implicity mistrusted anything out of the ordinary. _Ordinary! Hah_. He amused himself with the thought that General Mrell would never again be seen walking through these halls. Another link to the king, weakened. Another man that Bowie had prefered to him, gone. Another man who had doubtless heard his father's slurs.

The king was the first man to see, of course and from there the rest of the army. His mind, increasinlgy absorbed, he failed to take heed of the sound of running feet until the soldier was nearly upon him. "Colonel!"

Zellar ground to a halt, his gaze startled. He studied the soldier before him with thinly veiled suspicion. Zellar prided himself on knowing as many of the soldiers as he could, on being on good terms with most of the lads. They all knew well enough that most of the successful innovations to the army over the last several years had come from him, not Mrell. That had been one of the reasons Zellar had gotten his last promotion in the first place. "Will," he said, with neither favor nor hostility. "Where is everyone?"

"The Lord Minister requests your presence at once." The words were spoken with a certain amount of insolence, and that Zellar liked least of all.

"I must see the king." If there was anything, he supposed, that would get a troublesome messenger off of his back, it would be a meeting with the king.

Will's eyes glittered with amusement. "Ah, but the Lord Minister is calling upon the king himself, presently."

Zellar stopped at that, and suddenly the summons fell into a different light. Mrell had said as much, said that old Graig had been plotting some kind of action... "Indeed. Well. Let's get on with it."


	12. Chapter 11: Wandering Strangers

Chapter 11

Wandering Strangers

_The bells were still ringing, and he smiled. Completely self-assured, completely confident, he leant back against the bar watching the milling crowd with amusement. And there was Feldo, beside him, still looking a bit dazed. "Fair enough," he conceded. "You've escaped into idiocy." _

_Feldo scowled slightly, though not with real feeling. Not with real anger. "Isn't it about time that you grew up a little? The ideas were fun, but this is what the world is like." _

_"Sugar lane," he agreed, using the term they'd coined to describe the rest of the world. The rest of the unthinking world, at least. _

_"Ah," Feldo said, laughing now. He slapped him on the shoulder. "I should have known that not even my wedding could change your mind! Well, there it is why should it? Maybe a little distance from this argument will work miracles for your structure. Hah!" _

_He shook his head, still amused. "Is it worth giving it up?" _

_But Feldo didn't hear him. She had appeared, swaying out of the crowd, finding them with unerring purpose. "Fel!" And there Feldo was, grinning like an idiot, squeaking back at her. And they fell back into their familiar giggling. He searched himself for a moment, trying to determine what it was he felt. Envy? Or just requisite sadness? He turned his gaze to the bar, admiring the polished wood. "She loves you as much as she can," he said softly, to himself. "But nobody can really love." _

Sweating, Jellik jerked upwards out of his bedroll, his favorite knife already stabbed into the earth where the intruder's hand should have been. There was no intruder. His breath came raggedly. _Bloody dreams. _He staggered upright out of the bedroll, not trusting himself to go back to sleep just yet. No intruder yet, well it might have been a premonition. He could have heard a passing footfall. The apparent absence of danger was not the same thing as absence.

Disappointingly, the night was warm with still air. His skin remained sweat-drenched, and he jumped at even the most ordinary shadows. _Shit._ If an enemy could successfully manage to imitate the shadow a falling leaf made, well Jellik was already dead then. He was good, but not that good. After a moment, he smiled. _Nobody_ was that good. Nothing to worry about then.

His hands were still shaky, and he didn't want to go back to bed. He didn't want to go back to the dream. It wasn't the images he resented so much as it was the happiness. Love died hard. _Even where there is no love. _It had been a long time since he'd remembered Feldo that vividly. Remembered his fucking wedding. _I did the right thing. I told you what I had learned... _"Bloody idiot," he hissed, reprising the long dead conversation. "You let yourself become that drawn into Sugar Lane that you..." Well. No good in that. Jellik had done the best that he could. It had been the woman's fault anyway. And he did not care to recall Feldo.

Love died hard, after all. After a moment in which he glanced doubtfully back at his bedroll, Jellik decided that he would not go back to sleep. He could not ignore any possibility of an attempt on his life, no matter how small it might be. And what was more likely to have disturbed his sleep than some unusual sound? Mayhaps an enemy lurked in the camp, waiting for a moment, any moment when Jellik's guard was lowered. Caution was so much sweeter than death.

Spinning his knife around in his nonetheless firm grip, Jellik quietly prowled through the camp trying to calm himself and to rid himself of some of the sweat. The night was still and it was disappointingly warm, but it was certainly nonetheless colder than his bedroll had been. A cursory inspection showed nothing out of the ordinary, but then, Jellik hadn't truly expected that it would. He started his inspection from the beginning again, moving stealthily about on the balls of his feet, keeping a stationary grip on his knife this time.

Still, even he couldn't pretend that prowling around such a small camp was truly satisfying for a man of his talents. He took another step forward, absently noting that Clovis was deep in sleep, and he heard the sound of a crunching leaf. Jellik spun, his knife flashing in the dark. He didn't see anything, but his posture remained locked in a combat position. He had not imagined that. And any threat that he had not imagined must be eliminated. Jellik knew what to do with threats.

He paused, glancing warily back at the camp, weighing his options, considering his possibilities. There were two immediate questions before him. The first one, of course, being whether or not the sound he had heard was actually a danger. All it could signify was that one of the men had gone off to take a shit. And that was not an unlikely possibility; if Jellik couldn't sleep, then there was no reason to suppose that anyone else could. The other possibility, however, was that _somebody_ was out there moving with stealthy intent.

And this was why he had joined the Captain originally, and the work for which Forsyth had retained his services: assassination. Jellik had spent four miserable years learning the business properly and he couldn't deny that he was feeling frustrated by his inability to kill anybody yet on this mission. An intruder would give his talents a chance for a little exercise, assuming, of course, that he didn't practice them on anyone else in the team.

He remained, standing still as a statue, straining his ears to hear anything else that could be useful. There were more sounds, but, they seemed further off. Of course, that first crackle he had heard could have seemed louder, closer, because it had broken in on his concentration. Did he wait, or seek the interloper out? On the one hand, seeking his prey had the distinct disadvantage of uncertainty. He'd have to move out amongst the trees, and if he did that, there was no certainty that he wouldn't inadvertently offer his back to his opponent. That was a serious risk. Jellik knew without boasting that he was harder to kill than most assassins, but even the best were vulnerable to carelessness.

He slashed uncertainly at the air, shooting a quick glance at the still form of Clovis. The dour swordsman was nothing more than an out and out traitor, and thus wholly dishonorable, but Jellik enjoyed his company all the same. At some point, he would of course be obliged to assassinate the man, because treason, even when the treason was against an enemy, demanded retribution. And there was also the matter of the beastman commander that they had taken out; Clovis had actually struck the crippling blow, and Jellik had been forced to _share _the task of breaking the wounded beast as well. That was the sort of thing that one could never forgive. Permit rudeness, and insolence soon followed. And eventually, even opposition would arise. An intolerable chain of events.

He shook his head free of the reverie. _Perhaps a mage is befuddling the air? _But the thought was nothing more than rote. Jellik was always careful to drink magic deadening potions, precisely to avoid that kind of problem. Only a fool invited chances of defeat. Still, he hesitated, glancing again at Clovis. Perhaps it would be most prudent to stalk about the camp fully, ensure that everyone was in their bedroll and properly sleeping. His eye roved over to the far northern side of the camp where Forsyth had installed himself for the night. The northerner always claimed the privilege of command to set up his appointed space a bit further from the main group. It was shrewd, of course, in that he was easily close enough to the rest of them to rouse them to help him should he require it, but still gaining more autonomy by virtue of that increase in distance. Jellik had not yet paced over that way.

After a moment more, he slipped off to weave between the trees, his thoughts all of murder. There was the simple reason not to check the bedrolls, and that was that if he was being observed, it would be inevitable that he'd turn his back to the danger. Jellik was confident that that wouldn't matter against most opponents, but only a fool gave an enemy a chance to score victory. And the far more compelling reason was, of course, that if Forsyth had indeed risen in the night, then this might be an opportunity for Jellik to kill him and have an excuse for it.

Jellik hated Forsyth. The queer, cold northerner was the undisputed master of this group, but that didn't stop Jellik from hating him. He had trained for those four miserable years to be an assassin, and on the completion of his training, he had joined a mercenary group. There weren't many in Grans, but a few could always be found. Most Granserians considered mercenaries to have no honor, of course, but those were only the contemptuous claims of men who did not understand how such groups operated. The Captain, Jellik's previous commander for a year and a half, had been killed by Forsyth who had specifically sought out a mercenary unit to complete a contract on behalf of a Gransi client.

Jellik might well have refused to take any part in the scheme had it not been for two things. He was not asked to raise arms against any fellow Yeeli, and, much more significantly, Forsyth had _killed_ the Captain. Jellik still didn't understand how he had done that. The Captain had been so vital, so commanding, so right. Truly, the Captain had been a god or near enough, no matter. How could he not owe loyalty to a leader who had the strength to slay a god? Forsyth was dishonorable, and his strength was false, but until Jellik managed to discover the truth of this strength, until he managed to kill Forsyth when the northerner was not prepared for such a probability, Jellik was bound to do him service. It was an intolerable situation, but he swallowed his rage as best he could and focused on what Forsyth could offer him: wounding both the Galamani and the Gransi.

He flattened himself against a tree, edged his head around the right side of it and then the left. It was, he realized with a flash of fatalism, impossible for him to find an enemy bent on stealth in these trees, in these shadows. This was one of the oldest forests in all of Grans. The prospect made him smile. Having heightened the prospect of his own death was intoxicating. It wasn't because Jellik sought death, or even that he believed that he would be slain, but because it gave him the heady realization of all of his own powers. He was an even ground here with anyone good enough to kill him, be it by skill, which was unlikely, or by luck, which was very unlikely.

He spun around to the left side of the tree, keeping his back firmly planted against it, his smile widening. This was better than sleep. Much better. It was only a shame that he couldn't be certain of finding a foe, or, failing that, some creature out here to truly use his skills against. He had been most disappointed when Forsyth had decreed that the beastman would be left to die of exposure. Jellik was a claimer of deaths.

He prowled in similar fashion from tree to tree, never satisfied with the apparent emptiness of the forest. He had heard something, and he meant to slake his thirst for blood. It would put the dream far behind him. Half jumping, half running to the next tree, he came to a halt, his eye lingering on a fire pit. He stood perfectly still where he was, his eye roving over the scenery. After several minutes of stationary contemplation, he satisfied himself that he was not being observed and he strode over to the fire pit. He dropped to his knees, and then lay flat on his stomach, his nose mere inches from the ash. The campsite was a day or two old, he judged, perhaps three. He rose to his feet and walked around the pit, looking at the scuffed grass, the faint impressions of indentations. Perhaps somebody had been using a walking stick. He filed the thought away. Jellik liked knowing things.

His eye caught the flash of movement, and his attention jerked toward it without moving his head. A squirrel was poking its head around a tree, a few feet away from the campsite. Its eyes glowed, and it hopped forward. Jellik's smile stretched all across his face. The behavior was unmistakable; the squirrel must have been fed by whoever had last passed through. Why else would it approach him? He reversed grips so that his right hand was inching slowly into place. The squirrel took another hop forward, and the knife flashed out of his hand in a blur.

The squirrel's shriek broke the silent contemplation of the trees. Jellik smiled, admiring his aim; the squirrel's right paw was pinned perfectly to the ground. He strolled over to it, his thoughts of looking for another person put to the side. The pathetic beast was whimpering. Jellik whistled as he stood there, watching it twist and shriek desperately. It was almost a shame that the throw had been so clean; the beast would probably die, but it was possible that it could get along as a cripple. To insure death, it would have needed to be a messier wound. Jellik didn't deny that its helplessness was gratifying, but he hated it when he had to take a second action, it implied weakness upon the first. His smile faded a bit as he considered the best action to take, quite ignoring the desperate mewling noises that the creature was giving vent to. Yes, no help for it. He'd have to make the most of it, and punish the beast for the necessity. He was getting a tad rusty perhaps.

He slid another knife free from his boot, and squatted down, running the edge lightly down the squirrel's tail. An expert slice would be good at about... He heard the sound of a footfall, and his concentration slipped. Glancing up and around quickly, he didn't see anybody. He paused for a moment, trying to listen, but the stupid beast's whining was most distracting. Cheated of his sport, he stabbed it through the chest with the second dagger, wiped it off on the squirrel's tail, and slid it back into his boot. He removed the first one, wiped it against the grass, and crouched, listening.

He could hear footfalls alright, though they were faint. But not coming from the direction of the camp. His interest deepened. With a swift, graceful movement he stood upright, and moved with light stealth, following the noise. He could not allow any passersby to encounter the camp. This was part of the job he'd always done for the Captain, and he was damned if he didn't do it for Forsyth as well.

He crept off, noting that the first hints of dawn were in the sky. He must have spent more time testing himself against the trees than he'd realized. The light of the day disquieted him, however. It seemed that the trees, in such illumination were looking at him, murmuring to themselves. He found himself reflecting on Feldo again, and the realization of it shamed him. He had never meant for that situation to grow so dire, but Feldo's bloody wife... She should not have insulted him. Twice over. Both things that he could not stand.

He found that his hands were sweating. The realization chilled him. It was as though all his training was slipping away in an onslaught of memories; little things he hadn't thought of in years. His work hardened mother, who'd died when he was twelve. He'd never known his father; he was said to have died in the wars, before Jellik had been born. But it was Feldo he thought of most of all. Feldo who had understood the ideas, the theories. Feldo who had understood Sugar Lane. Feldo who had ultimately betrayed him, and married that bitch.

_"I imagine," Feldo said, "that he was not altogether bad."_

Jellik shivered. That had been a lie. That had never happened. But Feldo had been with him in all things growing up, and if it wasn't the one memory, it was another. Particularly the last one. _It was never the knife that I wanted to put in you. _Fucking happiness. It was the memory of the old happiness that cut.

Jellik was almost entirely gone into his own timeline when the robed man stepped out from behind another tree. Instinct kicked in and the knife went flashing even as a burst of flame went flaring at Jellik. It hit him, and bounced back, but he cursed loudly in pain. Jellik stared incredulously at his arm. The spell had... burned him. His gaze was fixed on the sore. For a spell to do that despite his precautions... He switched his attention to the man before him.

He'd been distracted or this man, a mage he supposed, would have a knife in the throat right now. As it was, he had pierced the stranger in the left arm. The mage was cradling his wounded arm, shaking uncontrollably, staring at it. "M-my arm. Y-y-y-yo-you s-stabbed me." His stuttering voice was full of horror. "I-I'm b-b-bl-b-bleeding."

"What a night," Jellik murmured to himself, his smile returning. Now this was an interesting turn of events.

---

The edge of the pain never dulled. Sharper than a knife, that pain. And he couldn't even eat it. Inch by agonizing inch, Gerhalt had at turns crawled, and dragged himself from the cave he'd been kept in. It had been the cold that had finally roused him from his stupor. He couldn't remember anymore when the visitations had stopped, but after a while his mind had grown clearer. It had coincided with the lack of another person, but he didn't want to put too much stock in that. It could have been a deliberate betrayal, but in that case, why had he not been finished off at the time? Surely that would have been neater, had it been a betrayal. No, perhaps the surviving soldier had been slain whilst foraging for food. A hunting accident wasn't out of the question. Or perhaps there had been more assassins. But then why wasn't he also slain?

Gerhalt dragged himself further along, his claws scrabbling for purchase in the sod. He burned. He wasn't certain if it was the rain (when had it started raining?), or if it was just the same old pain. Flashes of shadow caught his eye, as he dragged himself along, the pain searing his soul. He ignored them, having no way of being sure whether he truly saw shadow or was just remembering the cave. The cold stone. The sense of weakness that hurt, worse than mere exhaustion. The echoing voice. _"I love... love... love so much. I love._"

Shaking (or perhaps that was just the pain again) he shouted, "No!" At least he tried to shout. The sound grated and sawed, rasped and emotionalized. His chest felt as though it vibrated to his voice. "No!" The word was torn from him again, arcing outward in a heavenly trajectory. "Noooo!" The blue eyes. The dour dark shadow. The voices. Jellik... and Clovis. Traitors. He knew. _Drugged_, he realized. They must have kept him sedated, so that he would remain confused. But he knew. That voice had not been Jellik's. Those eyes had not been Clovis's. He was awake now.

"No!" His claws dug into the ground, and he could feel himself shrinking, feel the wetness at his eyes. "They thought... No!" All this time, they had thought him just a Parmecian to be slain? Just a beastman? One of Bowie's... "No!" Bowie...

He fell face first into the ground again, sorrow striking at him. Bowie... Bowie had assigned him this mission. He had known where Gerhalt was to go. He had assigned him the men of Granseal. He had even expressly refused to give such an honor to Jaha _or_ Chester. _Because they... nor, expendable. _

"No!" The word tore from his throat again, burning, but his hatred failed him. And he wept, the sobbing tearing from his throat, his chest, from deep within his center. A sword in the back… a sword for him. Treason against him. Who but Bowie could have arranged it? Who but a Granserian would be twisted enough to command the slaying of a friend? How could Gerhalt but weep?

Aching, agonized, weeping, Gerhalt dug his claws further into the sod, dragging himself forward. His strength failed him, and he fell, halfway through. The effort was too great. He was too weak. The world was killing him.

"Bowie," he rasped, the name clumsy upon his tongue. The boy Bowie had been when he had come to Polca… young. Idealistic. Noble beyond the heart of savagery. Then why? Why the betrayal? Why was the world so bloody cold?

And Gerhalt wept. The grass swirled into a sickening single vortex before him. He searched through the corridors of his mind, the secret hallways of his soul… and he himself was not there. His voice was divorced from his own mind. From his own soul. Within him… was nothing. Just a voice that seemed to sound like him… and yet not be of him?

"Betrayed…" the voice murmured.

"No!" Forms swirled before him, shadows took shape. The land stretched before him, wasted and wounded. Everywhere his non-realized gaze turned, war took shape. Intentions clashed. Battles were pitched, all as an argument. An extension of belief. Battle was merely the form of argument, conviction. Realization.

Gerhalt shook harder than ever with the sobbing even as the rain burned him. _Burned._

"Yes," the voice murmured. "Love… only love burns. Betrayal at the hand of a friend…"

"No!" The word was hard, strangled rasp in Gerhalt's voice. Bowie… the grief swept through him. And the rage. Left to die. With a sword in his back, with whatever had happened at the cave… "No," he mumbled. "Not… right. Betrayal. Don't know… can't. Won't." The voice was trying to incite him to act out these visions before him, but he couldn't. A bearded face, ancient and lined leant down in front of him, surveying him with weary eyes.

"What of justice?" the voice murmured in that same echoing, metaphysical way.

"No…" Gerhalt could feel the rage sweeping through him again, despite his efforts. "I could fucking break you," he growled, weakly managing to lift one clawed hand. "Break you! Not… justice."

"Shhhh," whispered the bearded face. "Looks like you could, if you wanted to. Better if we get you out of the rain, eh?"

Gerhalt frowned out of the surrounding haze, suddenly intensely aware of the raining, stormy sky and the face leaning down towards him. He could feel hands on his body. More physical than the voice still echoing… He gave in to the darkness. Fighting was just too much.

---

Clatt hopped nimbly from tree to tree, hugging the various trunks, slinking forward, feeling the sharp and powerful wind of the night as strongly as a slap in the face. The gods alone knew that he should have been more focused, more worried, more… more calculating, but to be alive on a night like this!

He realized that he was grinning like a drunken fool, and sternly he straightened his mouth. No, it wouldn't do to be too drunk on the moment. He did have a purpose, after all. He was Clatt. Clatt always had a purpose.

But to realize the sheer forces of the world, the raw gusting, buffeting waves of power in the world… that was intoxicating. To stand before the very epitome of nature and to feel the wind growing in his robes, to feel the dampness of the grass, to feel all of these forces that had ground mountains down, that had dried rivers and made the marshes themselves depression back into the water was to stand before all the power of the world and realize that he, and others like him, were the only answer to such power.

Whether or not he was equal to it, well that was a different question. But what could be in answer to these most ancient of powers if not the arcane studies of darkness? The followers of light believed in a harmonizing principle whereby such a question became useless, because the goal was no longer sought in the striving. Those who bowed to darkness were wiser. What could bite bit, what could tear tore, what force could meet another force would meet it. And in that struggle, that single essential point of existence itself, was the only life worth living.

To confront, and be confronted… was it any wonder that Mishalea herself had fought for this? To have the freedom to meet true power the only way that such powers could truly meet… was a worthy goal, Clatt realized now. He'd never quite grasped that before. Pao had taught him that talent demanded application, and that insults could not be forborne. High Commander Eiku had taught him that power was the only concept with practical application. The Shining Force had taught him that even darkness was not surety against light.

And the long months of fleeing from city to city, drunk more often than not, cursed and mocked for his stammer… that had reminded him why it was sometimes necessary for even the servant of a god to practice circumspection.

And so Clatt stood there for a long moment, his arms outstretched, truly meeting this night. One moment of eternity was all that he asked. One moment of realization. One moment of being more.

And then his eyes snapped open, and a little wonder seemed to flee the world. Was it any wonder that men fought with such great cruelty against each other? They were trying to prosecute power, in the limited ways that they had. Clatt sympathized with that, but he could clearly see the futility of it. What could answer the ancient forces of life if not magic? And what practitioners of magic were willing to recognize that truth but the ones of darkness? _It is a matter of protection. _

He began walking again, almost mechanically now, the sheer exuberant joy of his step having faded from the world. Protection was at the heart of the matter. Mishalea, Zeon… even Warderer, in his own way, they had all sought to protect the order of things. Light wanted an unnatural hegemony of force in the world. Darkness sought merely the natural process. The people of the world were the children of that process. And so, indeed, they had to be protected. That was the argument, the disputation. And if Clatt could find a way to allow the masses to understand the issue in such terms then perhaps he, where the other leaders of darkness had failed…

But of course, though he was a strong man in his own right, he certainly did not have the resources that even Death Woldol had possessed, and he had been an entirely minor power after he had been killed initially.

And that brought him back to Grans. To Lord Minister Graig. Because, he also now grasped another fundamental truth; Mishalea and Zeon had never lacked confidence in their powers. They had been avatars of most of the force that darkness cared to muster. Clatt was a strong man, for he was Clatt. That was simply a truth to be acknowledged. But they had never had to build themselves up. They had never been… unworthy of notice. They had been assured in their respective destinies, and so had taken outright war, both ideological and physical, to Rune. Now _that_ had been arrogance.

How better to assure that fools like Max of Guardiana would array themselves in opposition? No, far better for Clatt to work through other means. More mundane means. Far better to let a man like Graig wield the power in public. Or if not Graig, then another man of worldly power. Now that Clatt himself served a god, he had the strength to crush recalcitrance or betrayal on the part of a mere politician.

How foolish his fears had been back at the ship! He had not been wrong to burn it, of course, given what Guardiana had proven at Skull Castle. His god's exhortations to preserve the ship were a minor difficulty, but Clatt imagined that refloating what was left of the carcass of the ship would not be sufficiently troublesome to that end. So long as Graig honored Clatt's service to him, there would be plenty of men at Clatt's disposal. He'd assign the task to some of them and then kill them. It was a small point.

But that brought him back to the forest. Back to his purpose. Lemon, once the finest sword of Galam.

Despite having to keep an eye on the grim faced soldier, Clatt had made good time over the past two days and, in his estimation, Granseal couldn't be more than another day's travel away. No more than a day and a half at the very most. The fact that that meant getting some answers as well as dispensing with the tiring problem of Lemon made him eager to get there.

His reflective reverie falling away from him, Clatt cursed petulantly. If only he hadn't misplaced the bloody former Red Baron. Chewing on his lip, Clatt cursed the night under his breath. Better light would have been useful for tracking Lemon, and he wasn't easy in his mind using a blaze spell to get that light. No, there was no telling exactly how the powers he had been granted from his god worked and Clatt wanted a decent store of magic should he need to defend himself. The fires he had called upon to burn the ship had been truly glorious to behold, but they had also been quite draining. He could not afford to be drained.

And Lemon, curse him, had just had to go and make the whole thing more complicated. He recalled that after having gotten over his shock, he had started to appreciate having the man around. Yes, he had even respected Lemon. Clatt had probed the man a number of times, but Lemon had done no more than stare at him with dead eyes. Clatt admired that kind of obdurate hardness.

Only now the man had made a bloody slip of things, and Clatt did not care to contemplate returning to Graig empty-handed. He didn't have any other prospects in Granseal after all, and if his destiny was to return darkness to its proper glory from the shadows he could hardly be seen by any general populace in a proactive role. Although, now that he served a god, perhaps a religious role could be useful to him. If he made no obvious overtures to purposes of darkness then he would not be curtailed, and-

A shriek rent the air, and Clatt jumped. In another moment the horror he'd felt the night of the storm, the night before the god had made its presence known to him, returned. These trees were dark and full of horrors, and if a swordsman made their way upon Clatt, he wouldn't be much good in a fight. Not unless he was a proper distance away, but where would the dratted opponent come from? It was infuriating that these small, but very real, dangers continued to affront a man of his strength and dignity. Clatt had worked to get where he was today, and even if he had to make a new beginning of sorts, he still should be accorded the proper respect due to his accomplishments. He was proof of the dominance of the so called odd and mediocre, after all. He'd heard the words often enough.

He hurried forward, glancing back around his shoulder when he heard a crackling step in front of him. Spinning about, he shrieked and a burst of fire started to answer him… He shrieked again at the sharp pain in his arm. Stumbling back, Clatt stared at the dagger protruding from him, and then the well proportioned man staring back at him. "M-my arm. Y-y-y-yo-you s-stabbed me." His voice was full of half gasping tears. "I-I'm b-b-bl-b-bleeding."

The man muttered something, took a step forward and Clatt's mind went blank. He couldn't remember a spell to save his life, and he'd- the man seized his hand, none too gently and pulled him upright. Ripping the dagger out of Clatt's arm hard enough to move him to another scream, the man slipped it up by Clatt's throat. "Back to the camp with you."

---

His eyes flicked open, but it took several moments before consciousness seeped back through. "It hurts," he gasped, but the sound was closer to a whisper, a growl in the back of the throat, an ephemeral thought than it was to the expression of pain. His chest. The right half of his fucking chest. Felt as though a ton of lead had broken through it and just stayed there. _Breathe. Can't breathe. _

He flailed, whimpering at the agony in his chest. He couldn't move, he could barely breathe… there was a clattering sound as his hand encountered resistance and objects fell to a… floor? He whimpered again, confusion heightening the panic. He did not remember a floor… but oh this burning! This deadly heart-aching burning! That he remembered.

"Eh?" Measured steps. Gasping in agony he stared upwards as the figure became clearer, moving towards Gerhalt. "Awake, I see, wulfling." Gerhalt tried to move away, but he was hopelessly tangled in… sheets? He was in a bed and at rest?

"Now then," the man said, and though his voice was nasal and uneducated, he radiated friendliness. "Just lie back there, and we'll take a closer look at your wounds. Been in a battle I suppose?"

Gerhalt started to open his mouth, and gasped at the sudden blaze of pain in his chest. The voice that was him and yet not of him murmured, "Jellik and Clovis waited on you as well."

_No!_ His arms splayed for a moment, and then his claws sank deep into the wood of the table beside him. Sorrow jolted his mind, and memories of sadness played across his vision. He stared balefully at the bearded old man, moved more than he cared to admit by his air of nobility and solidity.

The old man merely smiled. "Don't want to talk about it, I suppose." He stroked his beard and Gerhalt's eyes lighted on a scar puckering the skin of his knuckles. Big, worn hands they were. Sensing more than hearing the voice he wondered how easily those hands might be turned against him. As Bowie… the agony in his chest increased tenfold and he gasped again.

The man, in the meanwhile, had paced out of the room and back into it with a bowl of wine. "This'll help do some of the work for you," he began to explain. "Get you to sleep and-"

A growl rose in Gerhalt's throat, and his claws flailed out again, striking the bowl from the man's hands. Jellik had tried to keep him asleep as he recalled. Sleeping draughts were part of the fate that had been prepared for him. Was this old man merely an added insurance that he be taken care of?

The man knelt to the floor, retrieved the bowl, and stood there for a long moment surveying Gerhalt with a dispassionate eye. Then he shrugged. "When you want something, call out, knock on the wood, whatever. It'll take my attention, wulfling." He turned on his heel and went out the door again, not closing it.

Gerhalt lay there, endeavoring to breathe as gently as he could. Was it possible? Had he stumbled upon a refuge at last? Gerhalt did not want to believe it, but he remembered his painful progress across the plains of Grans, after dragging himself out of that cave. That bearded face had come upon him then, and had not slain him, but set him in a proper bed… But, blast it all, neither Jellik nor Clovis had done him overt harm either, and they had clearly collaborated against him.

It was Grans he was dealing with. Grans was not a land for trust, nor for a Parmecian so far from home. A worse thought came to him. What of the others in Bowie's entourage? If Bowie had maneuvered this against him, then what outrage would he perpetrate against his other non Gransi friends? It was enough to make Gerhalt weep again.

The voice murmured at him, whispering of justice. Justice, it insisted was nothing more than a piece of paper. When that paper had holes put into it, air leaking into it, it was the duty to protect the tatters and write a new parchment in blood. Justice…

"No," Gerhalt croaked. Justice, the voice prodded at him.

Somewhere in the midst of these agonizing considerations, of the harshness of his breathing, of all these dark thoughts, somewhere amidst it all, Gerhalt slid off into the realms of sleep.


	13. Chapter 12: Theories of Survival

Chapter 12:

Theories of Survival

Kazin pushed himself, took a further step, ignored the ache in his back. His legs were on the verge of rebellion, his breath rasping high and hard in his throat. He pushed that away knowing that now particularly it was essential that he conveyed a sense of solidity. That he proved his ability to keep on keeping on. He'd always prided himself on it, and yet now…

The tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. _How can you run away from a superior force on these fucking plains? _He wanted to scream the words, but he didn't. Breath was needed for the next step. And the next. And there above all there was the knowledge that he had led them to this. He had made the choices that had brought them to Granseal, that had seen Rick fired upon… _My choices. My fault. _He wanted to weep.

But there were no soft edges left in him, only hardness. His grief, as always he had, he hoarded to himself. So. Loving Sarah had been good for something after all… The sudden ache, deep in the center of his chest was so strong that it momentarily blotted out everything else.

Pain exploded along the edges of his senses. By the time that he realized his balance had been lost; his face was in the dirt. Coughing, he started to push his way up only for a hard hand to drag sharply at his elbow. His head jerked up, out of the ground in a sickening flurry of vertigo. His gaze remained blurry and unfocused for another few moments, but his hearing was unimpeded.

"Kazin!" He blinked twice, and his mouth moved in protest. A weak sounding 'guh' was all he heard. "Oh gods," Sarah muttered, kneeling in front him, her hands out, turning his hands palm up. She took an expression that he recognized as a look of concentration for magic.

"No," he croaked, jerking his hands away from her. His left arm barely moved, jolting him to a bit more sense. His palms stung deeply. He'd lost skin when he'd fallen.

"Kazin. Let me help you."

His throat wasn't working properly. She took his lack of comment for agreement, and reached out again. He opened his mouth, feeling the muscles in his throat clench and unclench. "_No_." The rasp came from deep within his chest. "No," he repeated, seizing hold of her arm with his free hand, ignoring Randolf's grasp on his left.

"Kazin," she started again, her voice peculiarly vulnerable.

He tightened his grip on her arm, partially to prevent her, mostly to steady himself as he dragged his legs upright. His chest and throat were burning. He couldn't keep on going at this rate, but if they stopped to rest, Trosk would overtake them. And if Sarah healed him then… "No," he gasped again. "You'll need it. For worse."

He released his hold on her arm, clinging to his staff now that he was upright, pressing it hard against the packed earth of the plains. He stood there for a moment, then another well knowing that each such moment was a waste. But, oh sweet gods, to rest for just another minute, for just another little catch in the fabric of time… Sarah's eyes fixed on him in silence and luminosity, and his eyes were drawn to the blood smeared against her arm. His blood.

The sight of it there galvanized him into taking another step. And as soon as that was done, there was no course but to take another one, breathing heavily, leaning on his staff and trusting it to support him. He did not look back to see if they followed, for he knew that they would. That they must.

The sight of his blood smeared against Sarah's robes shamed him. It sparked his desire, his rage, and his fear. That that should be the token of some intimate contact he had with her… how could it but shame him? His weakness shamed him. For Kazin knew now that he was weak. In fleeing Granseal he had commanded them to wheel north, fleeing up alongside the mountains sheltering Granseal's northern border.

It had been the only course. If they went the way they'd come, then the pursuit party would be able to follow them and keep them in their sights. The mountains offered cover, and though Kazin couldn't afford to stop and take favor of that cover, neither could the pursuit party take the risk that he had done so. They would have to investigate every nook and cranny that they passed, and that could give them a chance to slip off across the plains. Back to Bowie.

It had seemed so simple, and yet now Kazin was showing his true mettle. He couldn't do it. He was so weak. The sound of his breath, the feel of his lack of physical strength shamed him. The blood shamed him. His desire for Sarah shamed him in that it would press even now. The brief sights of Randolf who had offered him such wisdom… the feeling of strength he had taken from that shamed him.

For what had Kazin ever done that had not embroiled him in the eddies of his own flaws, his own tendencies towards weakness? _I have always done what was asked of me. _Always. He had always said the polite thing, always offered dry commentary where it was required. Always stood by, prepared to talk to who needed to be talked to, to listen. Always been friendly in a distant sort of way, always been a presence. Even jumping into the Rhyl… well somebody had needed to do it, and he had been in a place to do it. He had done it because it would have been asked of somebody. And now the thought of Rick shamed him even more. He had done what was asked of him there too… he had tried. "Tried," he murmured to himself, unaware that he spoke aloud. "Aye, I tried. And there is a tale to make men weep."

And now he would keep on keeping on until they were slain or back to the camp. It was his only comfort, the only thing that kept the next few moments irrelevant. A completely linear path was before him for once, and that at least was something. And so, to Bowie. Back to Bowie. It had been… asked of him.

"You think Bedoe will bestir itself? You can swear to this?"

Luke cocked his head to one side. "Should I ask it, yes. I or…" The birdman's voice trailed off, his eyes distant. Then they snapped back to Bowie, shrewd. "Especially if we can proffer this treaty that you've drawn up. We birdmen of Bedoe take our obligations seriously, and anyway it would shame my father to see himself as behaving more uncouthly than a Granserian."

Bowie let the insult pass, considering instead the possibility. Lessening his air support was tremendously risky, of course. Galam meant to fight; Bowie held no delusions on that score, loath though he was for things to come to outright war. But as the battle was upon him he had to consider, so long as the leadership of Galam remained both hostile and largely pent up in their own city, winning would be very hard. Galam had never fallen from direct attack from the south. The northern gate was more vulnerable, yes, but sailing up that way meant facing Galam on the open water, one of the only areas in which Galam had never lost its superiority.

Bowie flushed abruptly, recalling that he had argued Graig and Mrell to a standstill on the issue of increasing their own fleet. How vain those fine words of his now seemed. If that was what it took to protect Granseal, then who was he to argue against it? But by all the gods, there was more to a country than merely the swords that it took to keep it upright. There were the dreams, the people. What people were left when a military was the only necessity worth thinking of? What people were left, though, without the military to protect them? Who could say if he had been right or wrong? He had tossed the dice, and now he would have to do so again. A bitter draught it was, albeit one that Bowie was growing used to downing.

The point remained that if the high lords of Galam had the wits that the gods had granted a goose, open war would never come. They would harry Bowie's forces so long as he was in the field, but they would keep sufficient strength massed in the city that they could continue to be hostile. King Galam had made the mistake of bringing war out of the city into the open plains of Grans, and that had seen the old man slain, and him with all the power that the devils could raise, backing him. No, the lords of Galam were not like to repeat that mistake. If Bowie remained in the field, it would leave them free to press him, and meanwhile crew a fleet to take Granseal from the sea. If, however, he retreated the result would almost certainly be the same, though it would be a bloodier battle. He had no illusions; if it came to a war of sieges, Galam had the advantage. He had to have some way of keeping them in such disarray, of making their forces so necessary to field against him that they would not have time or resources enough to lay Granseal to siege. The old city was strong, truly, but a war of attrition would kill it. Aye, he needed to keep the war raging on the plains without letting Galam set a siege against Granseal.

And he couldn't take a siege to Galam; he'd break himself on those walls. More time was what he needed. Or more swords. And so came the urgency of Luke's offer. The birdmen of Bedoe could make all the difference that Bowie needed, especially if they were warriors of Luke's caliber. The birdman prince was little short of formidable in the field, muscular enough to fly in full armored attire. More than once, Bowie had seen Luke plunge into a fray of enemies laughing as the arrows fell away from him, deflected. The birdmen of Bedoe were exactly what he needed. _Too much. They ask too much. _"I do not have the authority to reverse decades' worth of trade policy with Thornwood."

Luke's eyes remained bright, piercing. Penetrating. "Bedoe is the only kingdom of West Parmecia that could make this offer short of Thornwood. Particularly now that Odegan is gone; though they were truly too isolated to make as a good an offer. Will you place your trust in Drake and his dogs over us?" The birdman paused. "Over me?"

Bowie felt a flash of something close to despair. "Lord Theos is no dog, Luke. Had it not been for his example, I might not have thought to search the mainland for allies against Zeon. That old man is truly brave." He looked away, swallowing slightly. "If I agree to this, Granseal will lose Thornwood. I don't care about increasing our standings in foreign courts if the expense is lives, and you know that." He made a flustered gesture with his hands, staring at the rough calloused skin for a moment. He'd always been strong. But with the burgeoning conviction in his heart that war was wrong… how could he fight someone if he couldn't hit them?

"Granseal doesn't have any standing to lose; for decades now Thornwood's been staring you down. If you gain Bedoe as your ally that will increase your respect."

"We'll have gold for precious little without Thornwood. Is Bedoe rich, Luke?" The birdman stared levelly back at him, but did not reply. Bowie ignored the reproach in his friend's eyes. He would not apologize for snapping; it felt good to be on the attack for once in this bloody conversation. "I can't give exclusive rights to Bedoe. I just can't."

"Then you will not have Bedoe, aside from mine own sword. My father will not rouse himself to Granseal's aid if he cannot pick up a complete enough advantage. He won't dare to order me back, for fear of tarnishing my effectiveness, and eventually the rule of our family. But he will not justify the risk without a tremendous benefit."

Bowie's fist clenched. "Volcanon could make him…"

"Volcanon wouldn't even help you against Zeon," Luke interrupted. "Why would he involve himself in the struggles of the land kingdoms now? There are no stakes for him."

Bowie lapsed into frustrated silence. What could he offer that Luke would be willing to loosen the strictures on the proposed trade alliance? A military alliance would hardly do any good; it was Granseal who needed it more. And yet he could not turn away from the prospect of Bedoe's swords; the birdmen were a disciplined, effective and deadly army. If he could get them to bolster his forces, he might even be able to take the battle to Galam. Much as Galam held all the arbitrary advantages, they were at least as ravaged by war as Granseal was. Indeed, Galam had lost its king and had taken casualties from being occupied by Zeon's forces for so long. If only he could level the playing field…

He wished that Slade was with him. The ratman's service had been in the nature of knowing things. He would know where Bedoe was vulnerable. He wished that Rohde or Kazin was with him. Both were extremely well-read and somewhat worldly. They would know. He wished he had Sir Astral… _They're torturing you. Depriving you. Maybe they've already killed you. _The guilt curled around his heart, and then his eyes opened into a wide 'o' of realization. "Astral would not have agreed to give all we have ever sworn over to Bedoe, and yet you spoke to him."

"As an intermediary," Luke objected. "You know that I…"

Bowie's mind drifted, picking up on the other piece of information that Luke had let slip… nay, given him. Luke was too shrewd to have dropped such a critical bit of help without being cognizant. _He and his father are not of like mind. The court of Bedoe is not strong enough to resist my demands, if I can play this. _"You could do it," he said abruptly, cutting through whatever prattle Luke was still spewing. "You could force your father to give in, or at least get significant enough support that he'd dare not stand against you. You could make him think that you can get me to offer more, but that in the meantime…"

"Bowie," Luke said acidly, "you're my friend and I've already said that I'll support you personally. But I'm not going to ask my countrymen to intercede into an internal Granserian affair unless there's something that justifies the risk. This is not the same as fighting devils."

"And I have offered you something. I've offered more than just something, but I will not give the whole of our trade to you," Bowie snapped, some of his own heat breaking back through to the surface. What else could he offer that would work? Bedoe resented Thornwood's advantages, in terms of wealth anyway, and they were trying to supplant that, so what else could he… And then he knew. "The Crags," he murmured, so soft, so much to himself that he wasn't certain if Luke heard it.

The birdman prince was quiet for a moment, and then surprise flecked his eyes. "You… you could… how that, and not the trade concessions?"

"You admit then, that it would suffice," Bowie noted. That was trick he'd learned from Astral long before the Galamani had… He blinked, his eyes abruptly burning. Back when Graig had been the worst of his concerns.

"Of course it would, yet this… Bowie, this is far more irrevocable than aught else I've suggested. I've tried to do my best by you at the same point as Bedoe, but this would be _forever_."

_No_, Bowie thought, a trace of sadness in the cynicism that he was so fast becoming habituated to, _only until enough of us decide to gather arrows and mages to fight it off. Centuries is not forever, not anymore. _"You father wants a crown, for himself, but mostly his line. In truth as well as name. I'll not grudge him that. Indeed, so long as I have his swords, I'll give one to him. Why hesitate over saying it?"

Luke cocked his head to the side. "I'll sign any such treaty that you write. My signature is worth the might of Bedoe as you know. If we are agreed in this, then let it be done."

_And now he thinks to secure the opportunity lest I change my mind. Why would I?_ Bowie was not a political man, but rather a lord of necessity. He would agree to give the Crags over in the name of necessity, though… The familiar sensation of guilt laced with uncertainty wrapped its fingers around his gut. He was only one of the king's councilors, yet if he swore to it and the birdmen of Bedoe came, who could circumvent him? Graig and Mrell would be apoplectic and as for King Granseal, what would he do? The Crags might not be worth a fig to him, but as the matter touched on his pride there was no telling how he would react. Even Sir Astral might…

_Astral. _He blinked again, willing himself to control. _It will see you freed, Astral. It will see the Galamani too outnumbered to resist again and again. _For if peace was to come, what options remained to Bowie other than to make war unviable? What other draught could he force the Galamani leadership to swallow? "Not your signature, Luke," he said, wondering at the strength in his voice. "I want the king's own ink dried against the page. I want there to be no room for any dissension once this is done. I want your father's signature."

"That will take more time. A courier can take it to him, but he'll want to stall before agreeing."

"A courier would be involved in any case to convey the treaty and lead the warriors back." Bowie shrugged, confident that he finally had this ready. The doubts tugged at him, yes, but what use were fucking _doubts_ to anybody? He would shed no tears when their passing came. "You can sign if you want; it'll add more pressure. But I want it clear that the true agreement must come from His Grace, King Bedoe."

"Even if that gives him the freedom to refuse?"

"He won't refuse the offer of this crown that he wants and you know it. And anyway, he won't refuse the courier I'm sending. You'll convince him that it's necessary."

Luke frowned. "Peter would be better for your purposes, surely. None can dispute his link with Volcanon and anyway-"

"Nor can anyone doubt your blood," Bowie interrupted. "Who better to treat with King Bedoe than his own son?"

"Peter," Luke returned sharply. "My father will agree, I have little doubt of that. But he'll agree all the faster if you keep me by your side."

Bowie was silent for a moment. The suggestion… sickened him. Did King Bedoe think so little of Granserian honor as to suppose that they would keep hostages as a matter of course? As a gesture of goodwill, Luke should carry the treaty. Luke could rally those opposed to his father's rule much more quickly, and King Bedoe could not break Luke's own sworn word without damaging the effectiveness of his court for decades to come. Bowie meant to honor the king, to let his own honor stand.

And Peter? It was true that dealing with the phoenix was increasingly tiresome. Peter was arrogant and vain, and yet to keep Luke by his side when he was the only other on Grans who knew all of this matter… "I'm sending you."

"But-"

"Peter," Bowie snapped, surprising even himself, "I need for another task."

They came for him on the morning of the third day. Rohde was rather drowsy, but then it was not so hard to be so when most of one's time was confined to the sheets. He was staring vacantly at the designs in front of him. He'd been working on the problem of how to perpetuate the energies he'd need. The Ancients would have known the answer. A pity so much of their culture had been lost. But then, all knowledge was precious. All knowledge was an irrevocable treasure. He blinked, momentarily caught between joy and melancholy.

It was understandable; therefore, that it took him a moment to process what he was seeing: three armed guards. His bushy brown brows contracted into his forehead, less a furrow of puzzlement than an immediate thought to play for time.

Their leader stepped forward, a smirking youth that Rohde vaguely recalled having noted before, somewhere. Doubtless it had been in those desperate, heady days leading up the attack on King Galam's army. Before he had been crippled.

But even more doubtless, this youth meant him harm. It took no more than the eyes in his head to deduce this, for not only were none of these guards his friends or Bowie's friends; they had bared steel in their clenched fists. And beyond all that, even, Rohde was familiar enough with the historical patterns of young men who could smirk so malevolently. "Gentlemen," the historian announced, "I regret to inform you that the maid's quarters are a doorway down from here. I apologize for inconveniencing you."

The youth merely smirked all the more, his posture relaxed, though the two just a pace behind him seemed to tense.

_My words will not touch them. But how does a crippled man resist? Spit in their faces? _It would not be a memorable last moment. Rohde desperately wished that something witty or scathing would occur to him. In history it was always the last thing that one said that was the most important…

"Take him," the youth said lazily, stepping back as his men stepped forward.

Rohde half lifted his hand to stroke his beard, and then stopped. He was out of time now. He glanced over at the creation in the corner… a surviving vehicle of the ancients. It was his only hope, though King Galam had nixed much of what had made it useful before.

The smirking leader followed his gaze, and his interest picked up considerably. "What's this now?"

The other two men had reached him by now, and one seized hold of his arm, dragging him from the bed whilst the other braced his blade for a quick slash to Rohde's throat. Curiously, the historian was completely calm. There were no regrets in the face of the inevitable. He was in Grans. And only Bowie had cared to protect him. That his death would come now…

"Hold," the youth snapped. The two guards glanced at each other, and the one lowered his blade. Rohde frowned at it, not quite certain what had just transpired. His hands were shaking, sweating. _Was I about to go to my end without struggle? _

"Might be," the leader was saying, his smirk lessening, "that the Lord Minister would have some use for this."

Rohde's mouth worked, and a hoarse voice forced its way up his throat, out of his lips. "He wouldn't understand. Ancient. The Ancients. It was the Ancient's, that."

The youth's smirk returned, full of threat. "But you will tell us." He swaggered over to the dangling historian, flashing a dagger. "Sweet steel, this."

The guards exchanged a glance, and at the last Rohde could feel fear setting in. He would be cheated of his research on Grans… of the chance he'd been offered. Bowie had done his best by Rohde once, but Bowie was gone. And now it seemed he would die. The only option…

Rohde lifted his hand to stroke his beard, and then did the only thing he could. His hand clenched, and the knotted fist swung outward towards the smirking leader. His mouth bit at the hand of the man holding him on the right side.

Surprise was good to him; for apparently none of these guards expected that a crippled man might devise successful resistance. Rohde fell to the floor and began struggling over to the corner, knowing that this was always the weakest part of his hopes. But it would be a better death than aught else, at the least. They couldn't say that he had gone meekly to his execution.

The youth snarled slightly, but the smirk seemed a permanent fixture of his features, an unrelenting crease of the lips. His boot caught Rohde in the side of the head, and the historian flipped over, rolling several rolls closer to his goal. He tasted blood in his mouth.

The youth laughed, and came forward again, this time the boot catching him in the ribs. Worse, much worse. The fire flooded his senses, overwhelmed his efforts… _Breathe. _If he could but breathe. One hand flopped forward feebly. And it lay on curved, smooth, cold metal.

A quickness, a sick sensation rushed through his blood. It cut his breath off even further, filling him with such nervousness, such possibility. His heart fluttered nearly out of his chest.

He heard the quick steps, the slight grunt of anticipation, the sound of oiled steel being bared. With his arms, he strained to pull himself up… the boot caught him again, flopping him yet closer to his goal. The vehicle of the ancients. There was no telling if it would even work yet, though he knew the navigation was shot. But it was his only chance.

"Heh," the youth snorted. "You're not much of a challenge, but you do make a passing amusement, I grant you." He came forward at all strength, his blade in a vicious downward arc.

Rohde collapsed against what was left of the seat, his hands restlessly fumbling with the smooth flat surface upon which the Ancients themselves had once made their wills manifest. It was no good, there was nothing left to get hold of. The bottom half of the blade started to clang against the outer half of the metal…

There was a flash, a roar, a crack. Rohde himself was blinded, but he could feel the sensation of the vehicle moving, rolling forward. He shook his head, nearly nauseous as he crashed past the two other guards, their faces shocked. One went spinning to the ground, the other hesitating between helping his comrades and sprinting after the historian.

Rohde didn't look back to see if the smirking one was dead or merely incapacitated. _So long as they think I'm in control, that I know what I'm doing, I have a chance. Whenever pursuit starts up, I'm lost._

_Kazin…_ His name was a litany in her soul as she stumbled after him, her feet aching, her muscles involuntarily clenching. _Kazin._ A sob caught in her throat as she stumbled after him. _Kazin._ For so long, Sarah had tempered her fondness of Kazin with aloofness. Aloofness, she now realized, bordering on disdain.

For despite his unquestioned shrewdness, despite his rigid distances, despite even the brief flashes of complete lack of grace that were so peculiarly endearing, Kazin did not possess passion. Bowie was passionate, thus a great leader. Jaha too burned with a magnificent madness. Chester worked at it, and Peter achieved it so effortlessly that it was not as compelling in him. But Kazin? Kazin burned with magical fire, but despite those arcane principles, Kazin had always seemed _weak._

More than seemed. Sarah had thought him weak. For what was his self-effacement, his conciliatory gestures, his acts for other people while not asking anything for himself if not weakness? What was the distance he maintained from people, his scorn for that which was not reason, but weakness?

Nonetheless, seeing him now… Kazin had failed to save Rick before her very eyes, but he had fought with such vigor on the centaur's behalf, and he had saved her and Randolf, hurried them away towards the only possible chance for escape. He held himself at distance, yes, but the power he was prepared to unleash for the right things, the horrors of the mind that he faced… Yes, Sarah had realized that for all of his cleverness, Kazin found very little comfort in being in his own mind. His rambling, his tone of voice, his non-sequitors, all of these things made that clear. But it was that self same battle that he waged against himself and yet unleashed for protection that made Sarah blink now. Kazin… Kazin was _strong. _

Understanding that, though, didn't make her feel any better. Indeed, Kazin's… very strength touched her in a way, but it also freed her anger. He didn't have the right to be pushing his passive-aggressive pseudo-philosophy on her just because she had love in her life. Was that the source of his disgust? That she didn't measure up to his standard of personal austerity?

Kazin had comforted her, yes, but he had also been cold about it. _I've always valued his dispassion, but this…_ It was Bowie. That heady need, devouring at her, just gnawing and gnawing and gnawing. If Kazin had been at fault, last night, then Sarah was too. She had invited his commentary, his… scorn.

The realization made her angry… and her anger made her feel ashamed. She hadn't spoken up once when Kazin spewed his nonsensical remarks, because she'd wanted a friend. Because she knew him well enough to know that Kazin was happy if he could say nothing with a lot of words. _Because I was feeling hurt about Bowie and I didn't want to feel hurt about Kazin. When he does bother to say anything beyond nonsense, it's invariably… true. _

His words still echoed in her mind. _Yes,_ he'd said, _but I'm not Bowie. _And, _You do whatever it takes to maintain a level of hurt you can live with._

Both statements were true enough. But what Sarah had wanted was compassion, not solutions. Bowie himself was the solution. And she knew… she had known even then that just letting Kazin's less than clear statements pass would only encourage him. It hadn't mattered to her at the time. At the time she'd made allowances. Because she liked Kazin well enough, and he'd always been a good friend to her. Because she'd needed that. And she'd taken that comfort from him because… she had thought Kazin weak. _Because it never seemed to matter if Kazin was just Kazin. _

Her eyes watered, but she wasn't certain if it was because of Kazin, or for Bowie's sake, or for her own. Or if it was because her feet hurt and this mad scramble towards life was so doomed. Or if it was because of Granseal. The attack… from her own people. _But how? Why? _

Sarah had never paid much attention to the court, and she regretted that now. Even if the guards were acting on their own, they'd need somebody to direct them. Had some enemy seized hold of the court and murdered King Granseal?

The distances before her gaze shimmered before her. Exhaustion was so close behind them all; Sarah could already feel its jaws sinking into her. Her mouth opened and closed, and Sarah discovered the taste of blood on her lips. In a single instant, the physical weariness swamped her entirely. "We can't go on like this," she croaked to herself. It was no more than a whisper, and Kazin was still ahead of her.

"Aye." The word was hard, final, and surprising. Randolf's voice was as tough and loud as ever. "The girl's right at that. We can't go on like this. We keep going; we get to the end of this gorge. And that'll be the end."

Kazin looked over his shoulder opened his mouth, kept walking and promptly tripped. Part of Sarah wanted to cry. Part of Sarah wanted to laugh. Part of her wanted to rush over and heal him as she would for the sake of any of her close friends. And part of her was still angry. Kazin could bear the fall. He was strong. Instead she snapped at Randolf, "I'm not a girl. I've fought in countless battles. I've seen people die." Suddenly, absurdly, all of her anger came pouring out. "I've lost friends. Don't call me a girl!"

The dwarf just gave her that same deadpan glare he'd delivered to Kazin only last night, leaning on his axe shaft in such a way that he looked as though he hadn't lost any energy at all. "Forgive me if my age makes the whole lot of you seem like children, but we may have something oh, important to talk about here." His words sheared through the feeble protests rising to her lips like a rapist through a cotton shift.

"Trosk can't be far behind us." She had not noticed Kazin rising. "If we scramble up to the plains here, nothing can stop him from reading the signs, and following us."

"Trosk," she said quickly, trying to jump back into the conversation after the burst of temper. "You mentioned that name before. I know it… I think, but why is that so important?"

Kazin's glance was disinterested. "He likes war." The mage turned his attention back towards Randolf.

The dwarf growled, "We keep on and he'll catch us all the same. If we leave here, now, he may want to check on ahead anyway. And I can keep him off your back."

The meaning of that suggestion took several moments longer to settle in Sarah's mind than Kazin's, for a flash of anguish flickered across his face before he could control himself. "It's not… do you have any idea what it will do to my image if I come back with half my command slain?"

Randolf snorted. "I don't even know you and that's absurd. You expect her to believe it?" His head jerked towards Sarah, and she frowned. Not so much at Kazin's words, for as Randolf said, they were obviously a lie to cover the fact that he did care, as at Randolf's. What was important about her believing it? And anyway, why would Kazin expect someone who knew him to take that seriously?

Kazin smiled abruptly, but tightness remained around his eyes. "It's no matter to me. Bowie will commend me for escaping at all, so I suppose your life doesn't much enter into things."

The dwarf snorted again. "He does need you more than me; already you've proven a head on your shoulders for clever notions that I've never had."

"You thought of us making a run for it here and now," Sarah objected, but Randolf scarcely paid heed to the compliment.

"Any fool would have done that," he muttered, not even looking at her. His eyes remained locked on Kazin. "Well are you going or not?"

It was, she realized with a flash of disgust, just a verbal pissing contest. No wonder they were ignoring her. Kazin, however, suddenly turned his eyes upon her, and she couldn't read the expression on his face. But she knew him well. He would bear the sacrifice because he was strong. But it would hurt him. It always hurt him. That was the truth of his studied indifference. That was the truth of his willingness to help others, even if _he_ hurt _them_.

"Very well," he said, as though he'd never argued against the notion, as though he'd been planning it all along. "If this is to work, we'll want to move now. I recommend that boulder." He nodded towards a large and imposing stone near the top of the slope and without another word took off, his stride long, loping and curiously assured.

Sarah followed after him. She did not approve of death, and she did not approve of Randolf sacrificing his life. But the dwarf had asked to. And though Kazin had seemed to feel some genuine personal pain at the prospect Sarah… well Sarah was ashamed to admit that Kazin's posture was truer of her. She did not approve, no. But Randolf… did not mean anything to her.

Having absolutely no control over the device of his saving, Rohde was now able to recognize as a serious disadvantage. Indeed, it would not be an exaggeration to admit that he had recognized it even when he launched onto it as his only hope of escaping quick murder at the best, protracted suffering at the worst.

Forsooth, he must needs find some method of concealing himself. But what then? Escape the castle? Rohde was far from certain that he could, even if he wanted to. If guards were rounding up innocent historians in their beds all the conventional exits might well be guarded, and they would be watched at the least. That there were hidden ways out of the castle Rohde did not doubt, but he was not familiar with them.

And if he did manage to conceal himself, how would he see to the needs of the flesh? He could scarcely steal food; being crippled was a serious deterrent. Nonetheless, despite this most serious of predicaments, Rohde found himself undeniably… invigorated. Bowie had offered him a post it now looked as though he would not be able to take up, but even that pleasure had been tainted by his lack of mobility. And by Bowie's own vanity in the offering as well. But this! This was truly a great event.

For if he, Rohde, a minor person of no great importance, was worth seizing then events must be at work in the city. And such events he could write about, first-hand. Was it any wonder that despite his worsened circumstances and, indeed, the extremely unlikely possibility that he would be able to capitalize on his experiences, he found himself energetic?

After another moment of painful reflection, for despite his invigoration he could not deny that the situation he was now in was serious and, if considered with any intelligence at all, alarming at best, he stopped looking about himself. The machine would take him where it would. Most likely to an executioner's block, but he would find that truth whenever the machine did stop. If it offered him a possibility to escape better, well then he would find that at the time as well. There was no good in inflicting pointless suffering upon himself in the meanwhile.

Almost as soon as he came to such a conclusion, the device ground to a halt pitching him forward into a tapestry… wall-hanging. He waited for the crunch, and tumbled into darkness. Shaking, he pushed his hand forward.

Steps. He'd been left… in a passageway? There was a rumbling sound of rock, but coming from where? Rohde prayed for the strength to die with dignity.

In no time at all, the waiting was done, and the enemy massed below the steep incline, no more than ants. But ants could bite… Giving a growl of exertion, Randolf threw all his weight against the boulder before him. There was a crackling, rumbling sound and he threw himself against it again, as enemy soldiers started jogging up the incline, confident that they could take him.

He threw himself forward a final time, grunting in satisfaction as the massive rock was finally dislodged, falling upon his approaching foes. And then he hissed in pain, an arrow punched into his vulnerable shoulder. "Damn," he grumbled. He'd hoped that they wouldn't start shooting, so as to not risk hitting their comrades but, he could hear the leader below shouting.

"Angle your shots and we'll force him down."

It was true, Randolf knew with resignation. To retreat onto the plain betrayed his task. To stay where he was, was to be killed by the arrows. To attack was to be killed by somebody. The first of the enemy soldiers crested high enough, and Randolf's axe met his chest. As the soldier jerked, and then crashed down the slope, the dwarf nearly lost hold of his axe. An arrow just sailed over his shoulder, as it shifted downward to retain his grip.

Randolf slung his shield down towards the slope, and then flung himself after it. He landed on it, as it sliced neatly downwards, offering him a smooth and easy transition through his shocked opponents. His axe took the nearest one in the face, even as arrows started coming at him all the more sharply. "Fuck," he growled, smashing in the face of another enemy, "_yes._"

An arrow bit into his left leg, just above the knee joint. More followed, piercing his leg again and then the other. His axe arm. With a cry, he leapt again, this last impetus of his legs vaulting his shield sharply up. The heavy edge slammed into the chest of one of the nearest, fast approaching archers.

Randolf hit the bottom third of the slope rolling down, nearly winded, but managing nonetheless to leave his axe lodged in a passing pair of legs.

He lay there at the bottom, wrestling to pluck one of the arrows from his flesh. A weapon. He needed a weapon, he'd lost his axe. A shadow fell over him, a sword leveled at his throat. The air thrummed with arrows and dust and blood.


	14. Chapter 13: Hour of Knives

Chapter 13

Hour of Knives

The drizzling rain did nothing to improve Lord Odney's temper, and the cravenly approach upon which Lord Saentz was insisting was already fraying at the edges of his equanimity. He squinted through the poor visibility, his temper steadily rising. The damp chill of the fog was settling into his bones, his cloak, and, more importantly, his horse. The skittish beast pawed at the ground, unsettled.

Lord Odney finally cleared his throat. "The Gransi doubtless will be even more disadvantaged by this fog, ensconced in the trees as they are…"

Lord Saentz glanced at him, his sad face disinterested. "Patience will serve you well, my lord. I understand that waiting is difficult for a man's first battle, but the Lord Regent means us to crush Lord Bowie." He shook his head, and the half-light of the grey sky played in eerie patterns across the dead birthmark disfiguring his throat and face. "We must make a cautious approach and keep our foe penned in…"

"Lest we lose the advantage and the inclement conditions be turned against us," Lord Odney finished in a bored tone. Lord Saentz might think that he was ignorant of the ways of war, but Lord Odney was far from uneducated. "What glory is there in being discovered whilst this pause makes us vulnerable?"

"You overstate the danger, my lord." Lord Saentz turned his attention away, a clear dismissal.

Odney fumed. His hand tightened on the reins for a moment, and his horse shied nervously. Colder now, he slid his hand down to his belt, touching his knife hilt, feeling the smoothness of oiled steel. "If we have the location…" He could hear his words. They sounded wounded, churlish. An angry flush rose through his face.

"My lord," Lord Saentz murmured in a completely distracted voice, "shut up."

Odney's gauntleted fist clenched and unclenched as the blood thundered through his head. _I should kill him for that. _But he wouldn't. Lord Odney was many things, he supposed, but a traitor was not one of them. No indeed; hadn't he repudiated Lord Paul Chelsted in entirety? Hadn't he volunteered for this most crucial of the Lord Regent's battles? Hadn't he proven himself?

He clenched his fist again. Proven. That was bloody curse of a man. The unceasing process of measure. Lord Odney had volunteered for this mission, and Lord Kronos had given his leave, less in any belief that Odney was necessary to the war effort than out of the courtesy that a liege may grant his supporters. All because Odney did not have a proven record on the field of battle. And now Lord Saentz seemed determined to keep him from building a reputation.

"My lord," said Odney, controlling his irritation with only the greatest self-restraint, "if we are to linger here in uncertainty, at the least grant me leave to take a small party ahead, to probe better information on our own standing here."

"No." Lord Saentz abruptly turned about to face him again, and Odney only barely restrained an oath. The gods alone knew that it was trial enough having to look at Saentz's marked face let alone subordinating oneself to his orders. _But_, Odney reflected in disgust, _he is proven and in more than one battle. Faugh. _

"We shall not, I think, be here much longer," Saentz said in a tone that might have been meant to be kindly, but sounded merely patronizing. "I have not forgotten my pledge that you shall join me in the center, Lord Odney. The fighting will be heaviest." He arched an eyebrow; his lips twitching as though thinking better of a smile that he very nearly let lose anyway.

"I… have not forgotten," Odney stammered in a rush. "Yet I…"

"Are you scorning this honor, Lord Odney?"

He sat there as his horse pawed at the ground, lost for a graceful exit. "If, Lord Saentz, then certainly," he finally said. His words were slow again. Wounded. Saentz's lips twitched upwards again, but he turned away, apparently satisfied that the matter was concluded.

He searched for something to say, and found nothing. Being permitted a minor command of sorts in the center of this most important battle was prestigious. But it was little good with Lord Saentz's approach. All that heard of the battle would know what had won it, and the name Odney would not be on their lips. It almost made him angry enough to forego good sense and kill his disfigured compatriot. Almost, but not quite.

_There is still Granseal itself to consider as well. Should I conduct myself well enough here, Lord Kronos perforce must offer me a true command come that battle, should I ask it. Lord Saentz is not like to stand in the way of that, not when expectations of me are all so cursedly low. _It was a point worth considering. But Odney would be happier when his blade was graced with the blood of Bowie. Nothing less would suffice.

There was the crunching sound of heavily booted feet running through the undergrowth. Saentz murmured, "Mayhaps we have already secured the perimeters enough to grant your wish, Lord Odney."

"Already," Odney started to ask, sharp with concern over so fraught a word. The question was too late by far. There was a sharp, thrumming sound and a war bolt burst free of the foliage.

He heard, dully, a roaring in his ears and an agony of burning. It took him a moment to fully recognize the bolt protruding from his left shoulder. His horse reared, and Odney, cursing cogently now, realized that he had nearly lost his seat. "Men," he shrieked. "Lances at the ready! We ride."

He swayed into a surer seat, scrabbling vainly at the reins. _One handed._ The world lost all cohesion, became a dizzying swirl. How the _fuck_ could a man steer his horse one handed? His left arm hung limp and dead at his side.

"Odney!" He stared at Lord Saentz's moving face. The dead marked skin was even more apparent, when the whole world spun about. "Stop! We need order to respond to this, not-"

More arrows thrummed from the cover of the trees. Saentz cursed, ducking his head, spinning about in his seat. "It may be isolated," he grated, "but after this racket it won't remain so. We press forward to the center of the camp. Advance cautio… damn you!"

Heedless, Odney had begun forward. Saentz's plan had collapsed. If Odney saved it now…

"Stop them," bellowed Saentz.

Swaying the saddle, Odney spun about, his arm pulling at his sword hilt. The wrong arm, he realized, too late. He nearly fell backwards off his horse. "You can't even ride, you arrogant pup," Saentz snarled. Saentz's men were drawing in around him.

"Your orders, my lord?" It was one of Odney's lancers.

Odney stared into Saentz's pale treacherous face for a moment, weighing the chances. Saentz had more men than he, and the Gransi were the true target anyway. However… his fingers twitched towards his dagger again. With difficulty, making no attempt to conceal his actions, Odney drew his sword. Saentz's eyes were expressionless. After a moment, Lord Saentz sighed. "We'll advance in smaller groups to start with, and somebody needs to flush out this archer now, but…"

"Ride," Odney snapped to his men, wheeling about abruptly, knowing that he had Saentz now. It would take the marked lord a moment to realize the orders and by then Odney's lancers would already be galloping away.

"You fool!" Saentz's horse pushed hard forward, one of his hands on the reins, one clinging to his sword. "You'll lose us the battle, Odney! It's not worth it, man. It's not…"

There was a roaring sound as Odney turned yet again, this time ready to kill, for the die had been cast. Saentz's face was golden, however, illuminated and the heat… Odney's horse whinnied, and reared, screaming in terror even as Saentz came hard forward, an oath on his lips. Saentz's sword came swinging down as Odney fell from the saddle. The horse caught the worst of the blow and fell as well.

Shaking Odney tried to push his way forward. His midriff groaned in protest, and blood blocked his vision. "Where…?" His fingers dug into the earth as he pushed the hair from his eyes. "What…?"

Saentz, high above him, snorted. "I'll trust you to sort out this latest attack on our rear. I need to go and salvage this battle you've trapped us with." The lord galloped off, his men in large part joining him.

Fires burned, quite close to Odney and he heard a high-pitched screaming noise. _The horse…_ Exhaustion swamped him, his limbs shook, and his eyes burned. He fell face first into the ground again, just missing being kicked in the head by the treacherous horse. "Fucking beast," he hissed. Where was his sword? Had he dropped it? Odney didn't know. His good hand fumbled towards his waist for his dagger. After a few moments, he had it.

Pushing himself back up to his knees, Odney glared at the carnage. Men were running about, yelling, fighting… _The fires_, he realized abruptly. _An enemy mage behind our lines? But how?_ He heard the scream of the horse again, and only barely avoided another kick. "Damn you," he rasped, flinging himself forward and burying his dagger in the animal's eye. He ripped it out, and fell again to his hands and knees.

A mage behind them. The unknown archer ahead. Chaos… his lancers had already left and Saentz had… _Left me. In the middle of this! _"Saentz," he bellowed the name a wounded cry. "Saentz!" Holding his good hand up to his face, trying to improve his blood streaked visage, dagger clenched in his teeth, Lord Odney began to crawl.

Zellar paused at the great carven doors, his hands fumbling at the clasp to his cloak. Fortunately it was little more than damp now. He glanced at Will, wishing that the soldier would leave, the better that he could linger outside, learn of the ground that awaited him. He cleared his throat, fingered his beard. "I am… to impose myself on their meeting?"

Will flashed him that easy arrogant smirk of his. "The Lord Minister sent for you, yes."

Zellar resisted the urge to bristle at the casual insolence in the guard's posture. A pup. An arrogant young pup and a lickspittle besides. Will had always been one of Bowie's hangers-on, but out of ambition more than genuine admiration. If Zellar was certain of anything, it was that Will admired no one other than himself.

And even aside from Will's more mercenary qualities, the guard had never been a friend to Zellar. Never had the time of day for Zellar. What better reason did he need to hate him?

The guard must have seen something in Zellar's face, some inkling of the smoldering fires of his soul, because he abruptly stepped back two paces. "I'll leave you to it, Colonel." The voice was the same, unctuous, easy, and unconcerned. But the face was no longer nearly as amused. "I have other duties."

The guard turned away, fairly flying down the halls, his long grey cloak fluttering after him like a moth. Zellar sneered at the retreating figure, turning back towards the door.

He chanced a brief glance about the hall to assure himself that he was alone. His shoulders slumped slightly in relief. Zellar leant against the door, pushing at it only lightly, yet lightly… Dimly, the voices could be heard.

"Gone?" The king sounded sullen. "_Gone?_" Earnest pause. "To answer the insult."

A softer voice, but tighter. Old Graig. "Rip the caul from your eyes, Your Grace. You know what his intentions were. You have heard… what I have learned."

"Learned," the king complained. "Dammit, Graig, what means any of that? A man has a man's hungers. You're just here to bother me."

"The gates are sealed, Your Grace. And what of the princess?"

King Granseal's rebuttal was not fast in coming. "Who else would I have offered her to? Besides, all of this…"

"Treason!" Graig's voice was losing control. "All I ask is the ability to do my duty! You would not give it me before. Know well enough, that it matters not what you decree in this, unless you would see the streets running with blood. All I have done is for Granseal. And…" The lord minister's voice fluctuated for a moment. "Do this for your people, Your Grace, and the head of Lemon is yours."

"You dare dicker with your own king? Dare use words like must with your own king?"

Strained silence. "Granseal," Graig said at last, his voice struggling with rage, "is eternal. Not you, nor I, Your Grace. Only Granseal is eternal and to her all our devotion should go. I would have preferred other means and ways, but this is the course that a man must take. When we are betrayed, we must respond in kind." The king muttered something too low for Zellar to catch. "Lemon is taken care of; one of my men is out bringing him even now. I would use him other than you would, Your Grace, but if it shall win your agreement, then you may have him to execute."

Sharp clanging. The king must have thrown a goblet or a tray. "Are you calling me a coward now? A true man would not simply execute a foe who was not lost to honor…"

"Of course, Your Grace." Another pause, less fraught, less strained.

_He is winning him over._ But winning him over to what? Zellar raised his hand to knock upon the door, then let it fall again, hovering in indesicion. A little more. He wanted just a little more…

"Granseal stands on the brink of a new dynasty whatever you choose, Your Grace. Your line will only be carried out through female descent from here on out. That should be consideration enough."

There was long still pause, and Zellar could feel the air coiling with anticipation. Coldness. Finally, the king's voice came, sullen, muffled, tired. "Do whatever you want."

Zellar sharply rapped his boot heels against the stone tiles and pushed the door open, thinking on the Lord Minster's phrase "the gates are sealed…" Hadn't that old goat Mrell also spoken of the gates? Referring to Bowie… Zellar shook his head gleefully. _Oh, my lord you've really dirtied your hands this time! _

The two old men looked up. King Granseal held an enormous goblet in one hand with a sad expression on his face. "Zegal… no, Zellar. Pardon's m'boy. Lord Minster's asked for you. Graig." He shook his head. "Damn fine knight, son. Second in the tourney… years running."

Zellar's gorge began to rise. From anyone less obviously distressed, he would have taken it for a slight. From his king, however, who had just been berated by his own Lord Minister… _Look at what you've done to him, Bowie. Your own king. But no, you just had to rush after glory._ He bowed curtly, turning to the Lord Minster. Graig frowned at him. "I'd expected you sooner, Colonel."

"I…" He paused half a moment, realizing that it would not be best to draw attention to the fact that his circuit of the city had been the most recent one. "Stable boy reported some trouble with my horse, Lord Minister."

"Ah." The bald head inclined, slightly. There was distaste in those old eyes, but Zellar didn't let that bother him. Bowie had been discredited here, somehow, he knew that. How could Graig ruin his evening with that prospect before him? And even beyond that, Zellar hated Graig. What did he care if the feeling was mutual? "Well, I've finished here. If you would walk with me, Colonel."

As fast as that, he was back out in the hallways. The Lord Minister was not slow coming to the point. "Granseal has suffered a grievous betrayal. Lord Bowie's forces seek to supplant the king."

Zellar smiled, enjoying this. "Bowie rode to defeat Galam, no more."

Graig turned, his face reddening, an angry finger pointed at him. "And do you not see the danger in that? He has already killed one king. He seeks any means to rule, be it by the sword or by… other means." Graig's mouth became a hard line. "Are you my man, or Mrell's, Colonel?"

Zellar smiled for a good long moment, savoring the way that sooner or later every single one of Bowie's enemies came to him. They always did, for no one else had ever challenged Bowie and lasted the way Zellar did. "My dear Lord Minister, I am the king's man."

High pitched screams. The crunch of steel against chainmail. The sweet shock in his hands. Jaha's axe slammed forward again, into the legs of another opponent. The man screamed piteously. Jaha moved forward, the fires illuminating his face.

He hopped forward another half step, jerking the axe head upward. It slammed into the chest of an opponent, already half un-armored. Jaha brayed wild drunken laughter. Others might have moved with more caution. Others might not have taken advantage of such chaos. But Jaha? Jaha burned with a magnificent madness, an overwhelming yearning to surmount every obstacle, destroy his foe as only he could, return to Granseal covered in glory and to claim his glorious destiny. To prove himself worthy enough that even Princess Elis would kneel before him.

Laughing like a madman, Jaha flung himself forward at a centaur who, a colder part of his mind informed him, seemed to be trying to rally some sort of organized resistance. His axe sliced outwards, scoring a crippling blow against the legs. The centaur shrieked, kicked, lost its balance and fell.

Jaha scrambled to avoid being crushed; only instinctively recognizing the flaw in his successful strike at this last moment. One hop, two half of another… he stumbled over some moving thing, and fell over backwards. The thing cursed him, and he only barely managed to keep hold on his axe shaft.

Awkwardly reversing himself, Jaha found himself flat on his back, looking at a hunched over man. No, not hunched over. On his hands and knees. Bloody face, but rich raiment. Fleeing his death? Jaha crowed with exuberance. Another foe to be crushed. The man snarled, however, and was suddenly upon him, a knife glinting in his mailed hand.

Jaha started to try to bring his axe up, but a heavy forearm suddenly pressed down on his throat. Wheezing, his hand fell back and the axe nearly sliced his own nose off. He kicked ineffectually at man's side. His side… something seemed important about that. His side… his fingers twitched, trying to get a hold of the axe…

"I," the man snarled, making a cut along the side of Jaha's neck up onto his cheek, "fucking hate you."

His head snapped around, the pain dizzied him. His arm splayed out to the side, his elbow slamming the axe forward. It crashed into his assailant's side. The man roared, and staggered to his feet, like a drunk, cursing and spitting.

Jaha looked dazedly at the demonic, bloody face above him. _Like me,_ he realized inanely. An arrow thrummed by overhead, and the man cursed again, falling back to his knees, scrambling away. Fires blazed into life, galvanizing Jaha to grab at his discarded axe again. Where had his enemy gone?

A green-gloved hand reached out towards him. Gloved… but why was that…? Jaha staggered upright, his axe swinging outwards. It crashed into a hip, caught, wrenched itself out of his hands. Jaha fell face down, abruptly drained. The ground seemed very cold. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder where he was. How had he ended up here?

Weakly, he lifted his head and stared at the carnage he could see. "A…battle?" He had been going to replace Frayja on sentry duty. "I walked into a battle." But how? How had an enemy force gotten this close? Why was he all alone? With a monumental force of will, he pushed himself to his knees, crawled forward a few paces.

He stared at the body in closest proximity to him, dressed in rough-weave green cloak and tunic. Jaha tumbled forward, his fingers probing at the wrist, searching for a pulse. "Elric?" His voice trembled.

Odney staggered back up to his feet, his hand clenched against the blood flowing out of his side. He fell down again, his stomach screaming in protest. Had he broken some ribs? He lay there, for a moment pondering the possibility that he might actually manage to survive if he just pretended to be dead. But no, none of the charging centaurs or knights on their horses would pay any heed to the dead things that they trampled. And others might attack him by carelessness.

Gritting his teeth, Odney dug his fingers into the sod, dragging himself forward inch by burning inch. The pain was making it hard to think. The only truth he cared to contemplate was that the battle was effectively over. _If Saentz had followed my lead… well, fuck him. _

The sounds of screams were beginning to recede, he realized abruptly, and Odney went so far as to rise to his knees. If he could slip off amongst the trees, mayhaps there would be enough time to understand what to do next. Mayhaps.

Yes, even the ground seemed cooler. His hands felt numb. _Blood loss? Shock?_ His mind was starting to function a little better though, and that was something. With a hiss of agony, he threw his arms- tried to throw his arms, but the one was dead from that dammable war bolt- used his good arm to start to straighten himself up with the help of the trunk. Breath hissed through his ears. Oh gods, his fucking ribs.

"You were one of the commanders!"

Rasping in shock, he staggered drunkenly around, only to take a crunching blow in the face. His head swung around, his balance lost. Blood flowed from his nose. Through puffy eyes, he saw a woman dressed in long purple robes, holding a… "Healer's staff?"

The knotted end of the wood slammed into his gut. He fell to the ground, tears spring unbidden to his eyes. He was too damn wounded… too. His hand tightened on the dagger, his gauntlet slick with blood. He looked up at her, steeling himself for the possible opportunity. She was gazing down at him, her staff raised to deliver a finishing blow, but it hadn't come yet. He flung the dagger out.

She saw the flurry of motion, started to swing her staff downward. Too late. Odney was battered and abused, yes, but his aim had always served him well. Her eyes widened with shock as blood welled out around the dagger stuck in her midriff. Her lips moved even as she fell down, and Odney, with a brief flash of panic, realized that she could heal herself. Throwing himself forward with all the strength he had left, his hand outstretched and crunched satisfyingly against her head. Her eyes widened again and she fell on her side, unconscious.

Good. She could bleed to death, and hell was welcome to her. He… Rasping, Odney realized that he had absolutely no way of getting to his feet. He tried to summon the strength that had brought him this far, but he felt completely immobile. Didn't help that he could barely use his left arm. His eyes fluttered as a shadow descended on him, green eyes burning in wrath. The last thing he remembered was the following kick in the head.

Bowie's eyes raked the oncoming enemy forces for any potential weakness, all the while berating himself for a fool. How the bloody hell had the company of lancers just gotten into their camp? And they were too isolated, the few of them that Bowie had rallied around himself. He didn't know what was happening elsewhere and he needed to know, now.

"Keep it together," he rasped, bringing up his blade sharply to deflect a desultory arrow. There weren't that many archers and the company of lancers seemed exhausted for now. "They'll have to fight us more closely if they don't have any more than this," he told the small group around him. "We just have to hold out, defend each other."

It was, he knew, very nearly hopeless. But not quite. "Taya," he said as quietly as he could, "that one there is the leader. He's rallying them. If we kill him, we might have a chance…"

"How?" She was nearly hysterical. "He keeps them in good order, sorcery is no good against that wide a spread of enemies, I don't know enough basic combat, I don't…"

Bowie clenched his teeth, looking from face to face. Taya, Gyan, Sheela, Kiwi and Chester. Not enough. It was not enough. "For Granseal," he told them, hollowly. "We've got to stay together and make them pay for this. Pay for it."

"There is another way," Chester said. He took half a step forward, and Bowie was too numb to stop him, to think of anything else. Curiously enough his thoughts in these last moments were turning towards Kazin and Sarah, the mission he'd sent them. _Thank the gods they'll be able to muster Granseal. It's the last chance if we all…_ He swallowed.

"You craven dog!" Chester's voice was easy, practiced. Bowie frowned, finally paying attention. Should he really be insulting them at a time like this? "What kind of a man hides behind his forces? My lord will fight single combat with you. The stakes being no less than this battle!"

"Chester, no," Bowie rasped hoarsely.

Opposite them, the lord with the eerily disfigured face laughed. "A Gransi trick. When have any of your people relied upon the ways of honor? We'll easily crush you." He waved a lazy hand. "Advance."

And so it came. Or would have, but Chester abruptly galloped forward, his lance out at a sharp angle. The lord stared, much as Bowie did, momentarily uncomprehending. Then his eyes grew wide. Before he could so much as issue another order, Chester had crashed full into the ranks of his soldiers.

Bowie came forward, the others backing him. "Now. We have to… there's a chance, dammit!"

Chester spun about, kicking with his back hooves, his lance stabbing forward. As the enemy soldiers scattered around him, Taya chanted a spell of destruction, catching the fastest, and therefore most dangerous, of them. Sheela came flying forward, gauntleted knuckles first, even as Bowie's sword took the first startled soldier before him.

The enemy lord moved then, jumping cat-like backwards, his massive broadsword out swept before him. Chester came forward then, as the lord's feet just touched the ground, at the moment of his least balance… The lord dropped low, avoiding the lance point, and broadly swept his blade out, gashing deep in Chester's equine stomach. The centaur shrieked, tumbling forward.

"No," said Bowie, but the lord was already upon him leaving him no time to think. Their blades clashed together, and Bowie took half a step backwards. This man was stronger than him. Their blades clashed again, and then a third time. The lord smiled, confident, as he abruptly dropped his point low for a charge. Bowie was already committed forward…

There was a bellow and Bowie fell off-balance as Gyan barreled between him and the oncoming sword. It slammed into his plate mail, and the dwarf fell back, the chest armor cracked open. Bowie stared, in horror, but still had enough presence of mind to press his momentary advantage, coming back forward with a sweeping slash.

The lord moved back, his face grimly serious. Bowie didn't let up for a moment, knowing that his advantage lasted only so long as he could own the offensive. There was a slight tightness about the lord's eyes, a relaxing tension as he parried a blow or two… Bowie's senses were too slow to realize the obvious, and a spear butt struck him in the back of the legs.

Stunned, he fell to his knees, his sword held loosely downward. The lord came forward, his broadsword covering Bowie's neck. He would have kicked, forced his way forward somehow, but the broadsword had the range on him and he knew it. He glared.

The lord smiled, the expression oddly fitting his disfigured features. "Now you die." He started to swing, paused and added in a perfectly serious voice, "By the sword, at the least."

The blade came on. A shout rang out behind Bowie. "My lord Saentz!" The air behind Saentz seemed to crackle, and glow. A golden burst of flame exploded behind Saentz, and the lord arched forward, a scream on his lips. Acting more by instinct than design, Bowie dodged his head to the side of the oncoming sword, cursed the cut that sank into his shoulder, and lunged his own sword forward, taking Saentz straight through the throat.

The lord stood perfectly still for a moment, blood gushing from his wound, and then toppled down. There was shouting, and Bowie looked at various fleeing soldiers. Not all of them, but Sheela and… "Kazin?" His voice rasped sharply. "Kazin? Here?"

The mage looked to him, and then away, obviously upset. "Sarah. She was wounded… back there. We've got to get someone to her."

"Kazin," Bowie repeated, unable to take in much more than that.

The world was a cold grey thing, it seemed. And, _gods_ his head hurt. And his mouth, chance to think on it. His neck and his ribs. Odney retched and then blinked several times, heaving in hideously painful breaths.

There was… a body. A woman? The healer, he recalled. The battle. He whimpered in disgust, tried to push his way upright and gave up fairly quickly.

"A live one!" The voice was peculiarly boisterous. Odney looked up in a sudden panic. Approaching him was a cloaked, hooded man somewhat rotund in appearance. "You were one of the commanders, weren't you? Your cloak is too rich…"

"Who?"

The voice became coolly unamused. "You may call me Arlan. I suppose I should see to you, for the sake of my vow." The figure shook his head, and Odney caught a momentary glimpse of his features. It was too dizzying to make out clearly, but seemed homely. Older, perhaps. The head bowed towards the woman for a moment, and then turned back to him. "If I heal some of your injuries, can you make it back to Galam?"

"Some?"

"My strength is needed for many things, child." There was a stern pride to his voice. "Do not speak my name to just anyone, if you value your life."

Odney's mouth opened, then closed. If the man would heal him at all, he'd have time enough to reason the event out later. Still. His stomach roiled at the thought of returning to Galam, alone, disgraced. And there seemed to be something important about this… _Saentz. Why was he so confident? Was it to do with this… Arlan?_

There was bile in the back of his throat. Odney did not like the taste of this. He smelled a set-up, and if Lord Saentz was its originator then even Lord Kronos might… _Oh gods. Was Lord Paul right? Was he right all along?_ Odney gritted his teeth, submitting as Arlan's hands started to feel over his injuries. There was still a third way between Lord Paul and Lord Kronos. A third option. A third man to speak with. And just now, Lord Odney was not inclined towards trust. _Betrayed,_he thought blackly.


	15. Chapter 14: Pet Politics

Chapter 14:

Pet Politics

"Gyan's fine, Bowie," said Sheela tiredly. "It really just looks worse than it is. His armor may be irreparable, but… Chester's the one you should really worry about."

Bowie flushed, both at the assumption that he didn't understand the nature of Gyan's wounds and his failure to do his duty by Chester. _Gods, we played together so often. So why is my heart made of bloody stone? _He cleared his throat, trying to cover up the pause. "And… Sarah?"

Sheela frowned. "I haven't been tending to her. I'd assume that Karna's on it. Or Frayja?"

"You don't know?" Sheela started to open her mouth, but Bowie had already turned away. "No dammit. Of course you don't. Not everyone's accounted for yet." In fact, there were precious few individuals that Bowie knew exactly where they were. And most of the ones he did know of, he knew for all the wrong reasons. The wounded were always the easiest to account for. One of the many bitter truths of war. He shook his head. "Don't bother yourself about it until… you're done with the work you have." To his disgust, his voice quavered slightly. The thought of losing Sarah was much harder than that of losing Chester. Was that because they'd been closer friends or because it seemed more wrong for war to take a woman?

Sheela nodded her dark eyes solemn. She started to turn, and then paused. "You're meeting with some of the others?"

"Just Kazin. The only one of my 'council' such as it is that I know how to find." The disgust in his voice was too evident.

"You and Luke have been spending a deal of time together recently."

"…Luke's otherwise occupied." Looking at her now, Bowie suddenly realized that he cared for this woman much more than he'd ever given thought to. Sheela had not been an especial friend of his, no, but all the same she had always been… competent. Never prone to having problems of her own. _And yet she's suffered as much as any of us. _And as a man somewhat experienced with suffering, Bowie felt a tug of companionship on his heart. His jaw worked for several silent moments. "I don't think I ever told you I was sorry for your… loss. Against Galam. I am."

"Oh." She glanced at the ground. "Thank you. You've done… some important things, Bowie. More than important. Incredible. I don't suppose anyone tells you that very often, but doing as well as you have deserves credit." She didn't seem in the least bit flustered, he noted cynically. Not one of those women who would hang on his every insipid word. Bowie suddenly found that very attractive. He opened his mouth, not certain what he would say, when Sheela glanced over his shoulder. "I should make myself scarce," she said, amused. "Kazin's coming, and I've noticed that he doesn't like to talk to more than one person at a time."

"Don't disturb your operations." Bowie waved a hand. "In fact, just keep working here. It's probably best that one of our healers is basically cognizant of our position." Sheela arched a brow, the corners of her mouth perking up. Without another word, she bent back to the prone form of Gyan. Had the wound been worse than she'd told him? Bowie didn't suppose he'd ever know, and there was no good in paranoia, so he merely studied the intent healer for a moment. The gods alone knew that Sheela was well-made.

He shook his head, disgusted. _Damn ridiculous time to be eyeing a girl. I have my own love anyway. _He stalked several paces away, still shaking his head with vigor. As Sheela had said, there was Kazin. The elf took several hesitant steps forward, seeming unwilling to advance. He looked haggard, even a little aged. _There's a touch about his eyes now, not so much guarded as just… tired. Older._ The sight was unsettling. Elves were long-lived after all, and to see visible signs of age… _It's only a minute change, and perhaps is just weariness. Damn necessity!_

"Kazin."

The elf stared at him for a moment, his eyes flickering momentarily past Bowie. No reaction registered in his face, however. After a moment, he sank to his knees. "My lord," he said his tone colder than even formality would have dictated.

"Get up." Kazin made no move. "You don't have to bow and scrape around me."

"My pardons," Kazin murmured. "I am… very tired."

Bowie shrugged, started to reach out a hand to clap on Kazin's shoulder, and thought better of it. "That's another battle you've won for us," he said, thinking of Sheela's words to him. Kazin deserved praise no less. "Unfortunately, we must think of the battles of the future… Galam has gone ahead and taken the first move. How did things go over in Granseal?"

Kazin's mouth twitched. "We were turned away. Forcibly. Archers slew Rick, and Trosk pursued us. Randolf gave his life so that Sarah and I could flee across the plains."

Bowie nearly fell over, gave in and sank to the ground with Kazin. "Gods have mercy." His voice was hoarse, his mind numb. "Trosk? How?" The sergeant had always been a blood-thirsty man, but Bowie had never supposed him to be cruel. To be a traitor.

Kazin grimaced. "Clearly we have been betrayed. There are not many who have the authority to command this."

Bowie clenched his fists so hard he could feel the nails pushing into his skin. His mind cast itself back to that desperate night he had ridden out of the city with his companions gathered about him. _Most _of his companions. _Not just companions. Friends. _"Rohde," he said, grief clogging his vision as much as his voice. "Claude and May…"

Kazin's glance was measured. "We must assume the worst." His tone was blank, but Bowie was grateful. It was hard enough to deal with himself, without Kazin going into histrionics too. "I do not think we can say the king did not order this. And if he did…" The elf shook his head, light flashing in his hair. "There will be no mercy for us."

"No," murmured Bowie. Not King Granseal. Not even the king would… _Wouldn't he_? He wondered, suddenly very cold. King Granseal was an old man, yes, but still a vigorous one. He had been a great warrior in his youth, and still routinely hunted. And that night of the feast, he had spoken, however drunkenly, of executions. _But King Granseal likes things that belong to him! _And yet, mightn't he discard things that disappointed him… or break them if his rage was somehow stirred? If King Granseal had turned against them though, they were completely isolated as Kazin said. "This is a grievous blow," he said at last, realizing that every moment he delayed he would seem more at a loss. "More grievous than you can know. I've had word from the south."

Kazin's face stilled even more. "Gerhalt's forces have been destroyed, haven't they?"

Bowie blinked. "How do you know that?"

"What else would have been _that_ serious? We're isolated, is what you're saying."

Isolated… His brow furrowed for a moment of consideration. "It wouldn't be difficult for anyone with a grudge to arrange for us being turned away. Trosk could have taken all of those actions at his own discretion."

"Whereas arranging a betrayal of Gerhalt's forces would be on rather a different scale, yes?" Kazin's voice had picked up a little bit, as though such contemplations were somehow more to his taste. "How were they killed?"

"Peter reported that there had been fires, some fighting, a few rat corpses. It wouldn't seem to account for the entire outfit though, so he suggested poison as a possibility."

Kazin snorted. "I'm surprised he would take the time to think of that. But, in other words there weren't enough rats to account for it, and no evidence of a large raiding party or any other such thing? And even if there were," he added thoughtfully, "the timing just fits too damn well with… my expedition."

"You never got through the gates at all?"

Kazin looked as though he wanted to grimace, but thought better of it. "We were attacked as soon as our presence was announced. Which," he went on, a coldly thoughtful note to his voice, "is a peculiarly sloppy way of going about it, if they wanted to kill us all."

"Trosk may have just been overexcited." Bowie sighed, rubbing his jaw. Granseal fucking turned against him. That hurt. But even if Trosk had just made a mistake, would he have been acting on his own? Bowie had a difficult time crediting that.

Kazin's gaze was narrow, but bright. "We have only supposition on this. That Trosk turned me away is beyond doubt. His reasons are rather more opaque."

Bowie clenched his fist, watched his skin whiten as it knotted across the knuckles. "Whatever his reasons, there are no doubts, no… our position is weak, Kazin. I began this with just over fifty swords, hoping for a swift punitive strike." He stared at the ground. "Gerhalt is slain and his forces destroyed. Granseal is barred to us. The Galamani nearly destroyed us in our own camp!" The grief was raw in his voice. How had that happened? "Had you not scattered the enemy from behind, the war might well be over."

"It is war, then? The Galamani seem slow, to me, to respond to all of this. We've had battles, yes, but no more than general border clashes."

"They seized Sir Astral!" Bowie regretted the shrillness of his tone immediately. Kazin was not here to be yelled at. _No more than the night that we rode from the city. I yelled at him then, though. Knocked him down._ The blood pounded through his head, reliving each moment of fault. _"There are no crimes," Galam rasped, "when you are the only one left."_ His brow furrowed in thought for a moment. Isolation again. There seemed to be something significant about that. Isolation had been associated with…

"My lord?" Kazin's voice was gentler than it had been, less cold. But still infinitely reserved.

"It's war," Bowie said. "It's always been war. Graig was right to say that it would come to this if we moved." _I had to try, Astral. I had to atone. _"This last strike from the Galamani elevates the struggle beyond border clashes as you well know." He pressed his palms to the earth, willing the tension out of his body. "How did that happen?"

"I can tell you little. Sarah and I had pushed hard across the plains since we left Randolf in the mountains." Bowie stirred a little. There was no guilt there, in Kazin's voice. Only strength. Strength and flatness. "When we stumbled through the fog, almost into an enemy column, we rallied what little strength we had. It was clear," he added after a momentary pause, "that they were perilously close upon the encampment."

Bowie cursed. "How did they get that _close_? The weather was inclement, yes, and that doubtless helped them, but we'd already established sentries! Vantage points. How?"

Kazin opened his mouth, paused and then said, "You mean to remain in this spot then?"

"You told me the Yeeli wouldn't attack me."

"They might, if you bring war to their front doors. If it came to general battle, you couldn't count on them to attack Galam solely over us."

Bowie's mouth worked. "That won't be a concern. This last push didn't break us. We'd have to be defeated for the Galamani to get anywhere near Yeel."

"We almost were." Silence hung over them then, in that instance.

Bowie wondered what Kazin had wanted to say before he had asked about the camp. He did not have the heart to ask that question. There was enough suffering to go around for the nonce. "There are no good tidings to be had of your journey?"

Kazin shrugged. "It was straightforward, as I've said. We went, we were attacked, and we fled. Rick and Randolf were both good men. I'm sorry that I couldn't have done better by them, but the treachery that slew Rick was unexpected. And Randolf made his own choice." Kazin wetted his lips, his face pale and bloodless. "Speaking of which, do you know how Sarah fairs?"

Bowie, in point of fact, did not. But the question recalled another guilt of command to him. "I remember that you thought Sarah should have stayed here. It seems that you were right."

"That is difficult to say." Kazin's fingers were twining together. "Without her aid, I might not have returned either. Without her, I doubt that we could have sown such disarray against the Galamani's attack."

"Our position is bleak," Bowie murmured. A ridiculously obvious statement. Why did he keep repeating himself? "We have no choice but to hole up here, for a time, to lick our wounds, to see what we can do." But what could they do? That was the point. Luke would leave in another day, but who knew how long it might take the heir to Bedoe to return with all the strength that Bowie needed? If Granseal was truly closed to him, then that required immediate attention. If he had been betrayed, then he had to respond immediately and with vigor. He could not appear at a loss without encouraging more of his _friends_ to betray him. It was not such a crime to betray a truly weak man. Yet to fight against Granseal now handed the war, the city, everything that Bowie had ever loved right over to the Galamani. "We must know what the Galamani will do, we must be certain that they'll take the field!"

"They will," said Kazin, and a faint smile brushed past his lips. "You forget. You killed their king. You took the field and the great lords of Galam must at least match that, if they want to prove themselves ready to rule."

_But Granseal…_ "We must have news of Granseal, though. We must know what has happened there."

"That is a question I cannot answer." Kazin hesitated for a moment. "I am weary, my lord. There is much to be discussed here, but answers may come if we give ourselves more time to deliberate. I…" His voice wavered slightly.

Bowie leant forward. "Kazin, you are a truly great man and you have served us well." _Better than well. I can trust no one to see to the heart of things so quickly as Kazin. He gave me the words I needed before I sent him away, and again now. _"Speak to no one of these matters." He clasped Kazin's arm, hoping to convey how much he needed the mage.

Silently, Kazin nodded his head and rose to his feet. His gaze lingered over Bowie's shoulder for a moment, and then turned and went just as slowly as he had come.

Bowie gritted his teeth, his arms pressed hard against the damp grass. Granseal… Gone? He had to hope. He had to have at least that much. But Kazin had not left him much hope. _And there's been no other word from the city. Silence from the king, the rest of the council…_ His eyes narrowed. The council. If there was treason there, then surely… "Slade," he murmured.

_If_ Slade was still alive and at liberty, he could get a message to Bowie. Perhaps when Peter returned from his other surveying duties, he could try to risk contact. Slade would have to be the linchpin of hope. But how to contact him? Would the ratman even be at liberty? Or… Bowie's fingers dug deeper into the earth. Not Slade. Not after he had taken the trouble to warn him. But warn him of what? Of whom? Who could be a betrayer of kin? Who was heinous enough that they would hand a war to the Galamani?

He thought back to the faces as he had last seen them. King Granseal, drunk at the feast. He never had attended that last council meeting. Mrell? The general's eyes had been weak and watery as ever, but Mrell hated the Galamani. _Only since the most recent breach. He worked with them for years against the Yeeli, until Zeon. _And Graig. Thin and twisted and hunched over with his pinched bloodless face. Graig hadn't wanted Bowie to take the field, he hadn't wanted Granseal's strength to dilute itself or for the strongest swords to isolate themselves from the city. Isolation again… Isolation…

"Was that wise?"

Sheela's voice engulfed him and he jerked. He wiped his hand across his mouth, pretending to not be shaky. "Wise? I…" _I forgot you were here. _"What do you mean?"

"You just gave him all the burdens and asked them to keep them to himself. Incautious, I would call it."

Bowie frowned. "He needed to know. Besides, you heard everything so I'm clearly not…" He paused for a moment, and swallowed the snap in his voice. He went on in a milder tone, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea why you'd think there's a problem with that. Kazin… Kazin I can rely on. He always understands."

"Understands, yes." Sheela's mouth curved in amusement. "He has all the graces of a nervous man, and the strengths of a close one. It won't make it easy on him."

"You do him wrong," Bowie told her, beginning to feel affronted. "Kazin is one of the strongest men I know."

"Is he?" Sheela was looking past him now. "I wonder."

_Kazin. Kazin! Kazin, hey, Kazin! _Everywhere he went, everywhere he seemed to be, the calls followed after him, a litany of his inner suffering. His mouth twisted in self-admonition.

_You're getting what you wanted now, Kazin, my boy. Respect! Power. Authority. So why is it all so bloody cold? _He did what he had to. He had always done what he had to, but giving that role more coveted trappings changed nothing.

He couldn't forget that Bowie had only turned to him when he had had no choice. He couldn't forget that Sarah had no more respect for him than ever she had. Oh, bloody hell. He couldn't forget his shame, that was the root of the matter. He didn't blame himself for what had happened to Rick. There had been no way to stop that. Randolf though…

He walked onward through the dense, dripping foliage. He'd liked Randolf. He'd valued Randolf. And he'd let the man kill himself because he loved Sarah more. It was intolerable, but it had always been that. The grimness that had been brought forward in him… _Why did they never need me for anything then, when the stakes were no higher than personal affection? Why wasn't I good enough? _

He strode on, his mind equal parts disgust and bafflement that he would even think such a pathetic thing. Life had been hard to Kazin, but it had been hard to many. He was rapidly approaching the northern edge of the camp, where indeed, a healer's tent had been set aside.

Kazin took three strides more towards the tent, enough to poke his head in. It was swelteringly hot with the scent of burning herbs in the air. As he had expected (he'd already searched out Karna's position) Sarah was lying on the narrow cot, sleeping and—his stomach clenched in an unbearable protest— naked from the waist up.

Standing over her was Frayja, wrapped in a brown homespun cowl, as he studied the wound that Sarah had taken in the battle. Kazin, not without some effort, tore his gaze away from her breasts to the considerably less pleasing sight of Frayja's meat-like face.

"Ah, Lord Kazin," Frayja said in his oiliest tone. "It is good that you have dropped by here, good indeed."

"I came to see the patient," Kazin said, judging that the discourtesy might be just imperious enough that Frayja would let it pass.

"Ah, yes," the priest murmured. "A dreadful wound, though largely repaired. The loss of blood will slow her down a while yet. And healing such a cut left me with quite a cosmetic problem." To Kazin's disgust, Frayja glanced over at Sarah's unclad form, without even the decency to pretend otherwise.

"Cosmetic," Kazin replied, following Frayja's lead, though much more briefly, "indeed." He stepped out of the tent, and Frayja, frowning, followed after him, into the still damp air.

"I was grievous sad to learn of your journey's lack of success." Frayja bowed his head, his hands clasped together. "Though I am certain that you did everything you could do."

Kazin might have recoiled if he hadn't needed to speak to this man. If he hadn't needed to see Sarah. It was his fault she'd taken the wound in battle. He'd led her. Nearly gotten her killed. And he didn't suppose that she would ever forget that. _All of Bowie's plans always worked perfectly. _"If she's healing well, that's all I needed to know." He eyed the priest with distaste, wishing that Karna or perhaps Sheela had gotten to Sarah first. "Though if it comes to pleasantries, why are you wearing that?"

Frayja pulled the brown hood up over his head, his grey eyes shining, steely and soulless. "A man must do what he can to keep warm." The priest shook his head reprovingly. "Things have been moving too swiftly, Lord Kazin. We are not prepared for a lengthy border war, not when our strength has already been so sorely tested. You have Lord Bowie's ear. Coming from you, he might listen."

Kazin studied him at that, all his mistrust swirling to the surface. "Listen to what, exactly?"

"To peace. Not with the Galamani, but Granseal cannot be turned away from us if we return on bended knee."

"You speak of things you don't understand." Kazin would have turned away in disgust. Frayja was an outsider, after all, and one could not have expected that he would understand vengeance. But a sweaty palm pressed itself to Kazin's arm, and his head turned, unwilling, to gaze once more at this priest.

"Not understand what, my lord?" Shadows cast themselves deep within the hood, making his face brutish and older. "I have lived to be a goodly age, and I know what politics are. This matter is as political as it is physical. Indeed…" Frayja leaned closer than ever, his breath sour and warm on Kazin's face. "Why are you so… mistrustful, Lord Kazin?"

He jerked his arm out of the priest's grasp. "What has Parmecia contributed to our politics?"

"There is no need for all this anger, Lord Kazin. You question all that I do… perhaps you would like to discuss something?"

Kazin stared at him then for a long moment. Peace with Granseal… with Granseal. Ah. _Yes. And even if not, it doesn't really matter. _"I think not," he said, turning his heel. He felt Frayja's gaze burning into his back until he was out of sight.

"You can't take that out on me, Lord Minister," Slade snapped. "It was your men who bungled the capture!"

Lord Minster Graig stared narrowly across the table at the ratman, the white skin of his face stretched to an almost paper thinness. "Their actions are at fault, I agree, but how would they anticipate that a _cripple_ might have prepared for such an eventuality? You knew the historian better than they, and yet you made no mention of it!"

The ratman shrugged his customary easy nature back in place. "I would have thought you'd pick competent guards for such a job, or are they all gone now?"

Graig's lips thinned, but he did not rise to the bait. "A small matter, but one that requires immediate attention. I want that historian found and killed."

"That remains out of my jurisdiction." Slade inclined his head, a touch of irony to it, in Zellar's estimation.

Thus far he was having difficulty deciding which one he hated more. As far as matters of trust went, they were about dead even. Once, he would have mused that it was far easier to know what to expect from Graig. But then, he had not expected this internecine plotting from the old man, so that assumption was antiquated.

Graig's hands spread out across the table in front of him, the lines cutting their way across his mouth softening. "Be that as it may, the historian was not our only concern."

Slade shrugged. "There has been no sign of the golem, Lord Minister, if that is the nature of your… point." A lazy smile flitted across the ratman's face.

"Unnatural creature," Graig muttered. "This all requires to be dealt with." For the first time he turned his agate-hard gaze upon Zellar. "And a matter it seems to me that you best can deal with my young friend."

Zellar wetted his lips. Thus far, Graig had remained rather vague and the colonel wanted to take no chances. If he could play for time… "There are those who could countermand any orders that I give. I am not certain what role you mean me to play." Graig's eyes narrowed. "Nor am I certain that His Grace-"

"His Grace stands behind me in all matters," Graig snapped. "All of them, now. He has given leave to me to rule. Doubt that not. As for others, what others would dare speak against you if you act on my authority?"

Zellar did not wish to say the name, but Slade stepped into the breach. "You are chosen for this council… General." He cleared his throat. "General Mrell, sadly, is no longer with us."

"Mrell?" The surprise was too fraught, too strained. Slade glanced at him through half-lidded eyes and Zellar wondered. How much did the wretch know?

"It is perhaps for the best." Graig made a steeple of his fingers, gazing at the table. There was no pity in his eyes, not the slightest hint of understanding. Only hardness remained. "Mrell served Granseal long and well, but he was always in two minds on this matter."

"How?" Zellar knew the question was belated, but it would be worse not to ask it. And now that Mrell was dead, he felt that the general was, perhaps, entitled to a modicum of respect. His service had been long, as Graig had said. A brief flash of unease squirmed through his stomach. He could remember Mrell, the great Granserian general for as long as he had lived…

"His drinking appears to have caught up with him," Slade replied, shaking his head sadly. "He seems to have had an accident."

"It is a wonder it did not happen years ago," Graig grunted. "Still, what's done is done and in the end Mrell played his part. I'll have no words against him. A funeral service shall have to be held."

Zellar stirred. There was contempt in Graig's voice, but respect as well. Respect that Mrell had served the kingdom so long? Or was it just that Mrell was the last of Graig's contemporaries aside from the king himself? "He was a great man."

Graig leant back in his chair, looking dissatisfied with his hands. "These are grievously troubled times, Zellar. Betrayed by our own. Bowie brought _Parmecian_ swords into our city!"

"Lord Bowie has courage," Slade murmured, "courage that served us well at the time, my Lord Minister."

"The man is an idiot at best. Still… he is gone now. We must take immediate steps to reverse as much of his damage as we can." Graig's fingers drummed the tabletop. "So long as we must search for the golem, I want a curfew. Your men will enforce that, General."

Zellar's mouth twitched, hearing the longed for appointment. All his.

"Also," Graig droned on, "we must assume that Lord Bowie will not take this quietly. Beyond that, it may be that he will avoid being slain by the Galamani for quite some time. We must assume that Granseal is in a constant state of danger. The watches will be manned." He paused for breath, wiping a hand across his sweating forehead.

"And the Galamani?"

"Worrying over them is not overly practical." Graig gazed straight ahead. "Lord Bowie is a traitor, as such if the Galamani choose to cleanse their dishonor with his blood; our ties may yet be renewed. And if they fail to be satisfied, they'll be all the weaker when they move against us. We gain everything."

So… Zellar reflected for a moment. Not a bad scheme, he had to admit. Graig's ability to take control of a situation was masterful, but how much of it could he have known about in advance? Zellar's eyes slid over to Slade again, smooth-faced and agreeable. There was more beneath the surface here. For a moment, Zellar felt disgusted. _Bowie. Bloody fool. If you'd ever bothered to keep your hands clean… well, you are a traitor or near enough if the Lord Minister turns against you. _"There is one thing I must have if you expect cooperation," Zellar returned, wondering how far he could push the issue, how deep the knife point was lodged.

"Must?" Graig's lips were white.

"Trosk. I want him for command. Under me."

Graig's face smoothed out, but there was a spark of uncertainty to it. "Of course. I am minded to ask a favor of you in that case, my Lord General. I want Will to be appointed your adjutant."

Zellar's mouth clamped down. Will… so that was the way of it. The bloody fool had already been bought and sold. And Graig held the whip. "As you wish." The words were not quite gracious, but the wave of disgust had subsumed Zellar again.

Graig nodded. "Very well. We can discuss our circumstances in greater detail, but we must first take the necessary precautions."

_And your patience is so exhausted by dealing with a man you do not trust. Well, two can play at that game. _Zellar rose, his head jerking downward curtly. A moment later Slade had risen with him.

"If you might walk with me for a moment, General?"

Zellar's eyebrows twitched. The glance he stole of Graig's face, however, showed nothing but surprise. "As you wish," he said, yet again. The ratman's smile was lazy again.

In short order the two of them were strolling across the battlements of the castle. The blood hummed in Zellar's ears as he reflected upon how easy it would be to toss the ratman down to his, doubtless, well-deserved death.

"The challenges we face are intriguing ones," Slade said abruptly. "A conflict of this magnitude has not been seen in Granseal for decades."

"Granserians do not turn traitor," Zellar snapped.

"As Lord Bowie has?"

Zellar turned his gaze ahead, across the plains. His mouth made a hard line. Was the ratman still for Bowie then? "Lord Bowie's aims are not entirely lost to good sense. When he presumes to set himself above others though… the other councilors for example, that treads a dangerous line." _Against me. _The long years of defeat washed through him again, and Zellar blinked. He hoped the bloody sod wouldn't be killed by the Galamani. It would be so much sweeter to reserve that pleasure for himself. To see Bowie's face when he saw what Zellar had made of the mess that had been left behind.

The sardonic smile was not quite gone from Slade's visage. "Which councilors do you avenge, Lord General? Are you the Lord Minister's man, or do you still serve the late general?"

Zellar's eyes flashed back to the ratman. Full of guile, aye, but not a blind supporter of Graig's then. That might be useful in the immediate future. "I am, of course, the king's man."

"Ah yes," murmured Slade turning his gaze outward for a bare second. "His Grace." The ratman's face had never looked more serious as he stepped closer, placing his paw once more on Zellar's arm. "It is a very good time to be the king's man," he said, quietly.

Lord Kronos was exhausted. Playing the role of Lord Regent was rather more tiring than he would have supposed. Kronos knew how to lead men in war, yes, but this endless affair of dinners and wines, extracting promises and pledges on the one hand, making them on the other, did not conform to his notions of what a truly great man would do. A pity.

He stabbed his fork forward, and studied the morsel of fish before working it from side to side in his mouth. Zocc bounced uncomfortably, clearly wanting nothing more than to get out of his chair. Fortunately, the Green Baron had some sense of courtesy left. One of his only good points.

"Tell me Shaita," Kronos began, turning to face the ratman, "about these travels of yours."

"I…" the shaman wet his lips, his eyes filled with mute appeal. "That is…"

"Surely these tales can wait for a less fraught time?" Zocc's pale face reddened slightly as he realized the risks of making such an objection too openly.

Kronos's mouth turned down for a moment. The happier he was, the more Kronos scowled. Pleasures were to be savored, privately. The scowl was a useful weapon. And beyond that, the flash of relief in Shaita's eyes was not lost on Kronos. _I am surrounded by fools and flatterers. _Still. A useful thing to know.

He turned his cold, hawkish gaze upon Zocc. The Green Baron met his gaze. "The war?"

"Is proceeding." Kronos did not care for Zocc's presumptions, no, but the man was invaluable. For the moment. "It was your informants who told us where Bowie's encampment is… where it's vulnerable. A strike now may end the matter."

"It does not end the matter, not if we vanquish him so soon." Zocc rocked back and forth. "As you well know. Galam…" Zocc's eyes flickered over to Shaita for a bare moment before plunging on, "We are not prepared for a war with Granseal proper. Not yet. The victories that we have won thus far were meant to provoke them into a longer struggle."

"I see that not even your informants can tell you everything." Kronos sipped his wine, savoring the verbal attack. "I received a letter today. That spineless toad Graig is prepared to give us Lemon, in exchange for concessions."

"Lemon?" Zocc's eyes narrowed. "Even if Graig has him, which I highly doubt, what matters that?"

"It matters everything. If the rest of Granseal's leadership will stick their necks off, we can wield the sword."

"You'd slay them under truce?"

"Traitors do not merit the conventions of honor. No more than they did when we rode into their city."

Zocc's mouth moved for a moment before he found an answer. "There were none who truly thought that deception beyond the pale. Violating truce rights though…"

Kronos stifled a yawn. He was very full and getting rather sleepy and the Green Baron's constant probing was tiresome. "As I've yet to hear from the front, we may end up with the longer war that you desire."

"You should desire it," Zocc said sharply. "A fortnight at least is not so very long, but long enough that there will be none left who believe themselves capable of challenging you." He discarded his fork at the last, the pretence of eating thrown aside. "Aside from Lord Chelsted, perhaps."

Kronos picked up his goblet again, wondering. Did Lord Zocc guess that the march on Bowie had more to do with forestalling Lord Paul than aught else? He might. Or he might merely be Chelsted's creature as Kronos had always been inclined to suspect. "The battle should be victorious at any rate," he said, presently.

"Who did you give the command to? I quite forgot to ask." The Green Baron's tone was mild, but he had picked up his fork again, toying with the fish on his plate.

"Saentz and Odney."

"You… what? That was foolish." Zocc hastily waved a hand through the air, "I mean… forgive the impudence, my lord, but surely it would have been wiser to keep Saentz here."

"Saentz is loyal to me. Commendably loyal. Before Granseal, he was prepared to put his sword in my hand."

"Precisely. Why bleed off your own strength?" Zocc's lips twisted in disgust. "And Odney? You would have better sent off Lord Munkrey."

Kronos clamped his rage hard down in his chest. How dare Zocc criticize his every decision? Urging him to trust to the loyalty of more of Lord Paul's toadies no less. "Odney requested the honor."

"And you had already honored him by favoring him over Munkrey. If you'd asked Munkrey to show his honor on the field of battle, you would have honored him. He may never love you, but he'd have been your men. If there are no battles to come…"

Kronos stared straight into Zocc's eyes. A leader who had to voice his commands was never so strong as one who could remain silent. Zocc's eyes bored straight back at him.

"My lords." Shaita's dusty voice intruded upon them. The shaman's trembling paw pointed towards the window. "A raven. Mayhaps this contains the news you seek."

Kronos looked over to the window, not missing the way Zocc's eyes flashed back to Shaita again. There would be blood between those two someday soon. If Kronos were a betting man, he would lay it all on Shaita. Shamanry would be a delicate thing to threaten.

He paced over to the window, each step feeling heavy and slow. Kronos unlatched the window, his face calm and composed. The raven hopped inside, and Kronos removed the parchment knotted to one of the legs. The seal was Saentz's. So. From the south after all. The battle was either won or in dire straits.

He looked over his shoulder. Shaita's gaze revealed little other than wariness. Kronos felt a vague unease at that. If nothing else, Zocc had been right to say that he knew too little about the shaman. And that mysterious… patron. On Zocc's face was an undisguised greed, his hand not quite moving towards Kronos. _Yes the desire to know…_ Kronos smiled coldly. _And so the wheel turns. _

He slid the parchment into his vest. "Not the south." He would prefer to look over that information without Zocc hovering over his shoulder. Doubtless the Green Baron had his own informants prepared to receive a report of any event. Zocc could go through his own bloody channels.

"Shaita," Kronos said, deciding that he had lingered long enough, that now was the moment to strike. "The wizard. Is he broken?"

The ratman's face blanched. "My patron is not yet…"

"Not yet finished. Well, he may be yet, he may be yet." Kronos turned his gaze to the Green Baron again. "Last you said that Lord Paul Chelsted was ill. I presume he's recovered?" Not bothering to await the inevitable yes or no he went on, "I want him watched. Followed. I want to have whatever I can on him to calm him. Without one of the high lords, Tiberius's grudge goes no further. And I want a list. Of the lords I can trust. Of the lords I can't." He leaned forward, praying that he had judged the ever complex Green Baron aright. "I want it all, everything you can bring me."

_And tomorrow? Tomorrow we deal with Lord Minister Graig, I think. And the north. _


	16. Chapter 15: That Which Festers

Chapter 15:

That Which Festers

His eyelids fluttered open. _Where…?_ His back arched instinctively, and a growl slipped loose from his throat at the protest in the left side of his chest. Despite his muddled head though, Gerhalt remembered. At least a little and that was enough to help him know he'd rather not remember.

He breathed in and out carefully, trying to test how bad the wound in his side was. A whimper escaped his mouth. Gods, it hurt. There was a terrible sense of weight and immobility over half of his chest. It hurt to move. It hurt to think. It hurt.

But Gerhalt was more afraid of slipping back into insensibility than he was of the pain. His thoughts were scattered, his memories fuzzy, but he knew he'd spent most of his time recently either unconscious or in a fevered daze. He couldn't be unaware again, or he might never have the freedom to ponder his… circumstances.

He took a deep breath, choking down the cry of pain at the constriction of his chest, and then dug his hands into either edge of the bedside, trying to prop himself up, the better to remain alert. The effort was surprisingly easy for five seconds or so, and then a burning feeling of unholy agony swept through his side, his chest, and his ribs. Gerhalt roared, and his vision leaked away from him in streaks of darkness.

* * *

His eyes narrowed. There was an assortment of craggy looking men moving in various ways up and down the trail. And at the top was some kind of built… observation post. Unconsciously gnawing at the calluses around the tips of his fingers, Jellik glared narrowly at Forsyth's back.

They'd been traveling hard for two days straight into the western mountains, and now had apparently reached their destination. But the northerner had spoken no word of there being more men awaiting them, and Jellik hated surprises.

One of the bigger men, all solid muscle Jellik noted with a quickly appraising eye, roared and vaulted forward off of a tree stump. "Forsyth!"

Huge, imposing, he caught Forsyth in what could only have been a crushing embrace. Jellik's lips twitched as he studied the man a little more closely. A big bearded lout of a fellow, with a mass of scars on his hands and wrists… Probably more capable than he acted, but less than he looked.

Forsyth nimbly spun around, slapping the man's shoulder. "This is Urzo. He's going to be our overseer."

Clovis stood nearby, looking dour, chewing at some leaf or other. He merely nodded. Jellik said sharply, "You said nothing about any overseer."

Forsyth arched a brow, smirking at him. The scar on his cheek flowed into an absurdly fitting dimple. "I told you no more than you needed to know, Jellik. As you yourself keep teaching us, caution is everything."

For a moment Jellik considered a direct response to that, then thought better of it. "Why are we here?" He made a vague gesture to encompass all of the bustling activity. There had to be at least twenty workers there, and if they were all this Urzo's men, and Urzo had a history with Forsyth… He was pleased to note the way his dagger glinted in the sun. "How does this accomplish our goal?"

"We're building here," Forsyth answered, curtly. "There are rivers that course through the heart of these old mountains. We're damming one of the bigger ones. Or, at least Urzo's men are. There will be other, minor tasks for some of the rest of us."

Jellik spun around neatly on his heels, feigning nonchalance. _Damming a river? What nonsense is this, now?_

"Where are you going?" Forsyth, as always sounded rather smug. "You can play with your new toy, later." The northerner's eyes flickered lazily over to where the inert bundle of the unconscious mage lay. "As it happens, there is a specific task for which even your talents are needed, Jellik."

He turned back, a muscle in his cheek twitching. "Captain knows best," he muttered.

"Yes, he does. We're strongly camped here, but supplies are a bit of a problem. We'll want them from Yeel. That'll be your jurisdiction."

"What?" The implications were staggering. "You want me to steal from the Y-"

"As you know," Forsyth put in blandly, "Yeel will be the chief beneficiary of our work here. We've been over that. No, you won't need to steal anything. Or at least, probably not. But," and here he waved a languid hand, "who else amongst us would the Yeeli feel sanguine about selling to? Or even setting up a relay system for the benefit of?"

Jellik considered for a moment, needing to believe those obvious lies and loathing Forsyth all the more for that necessity. Oh, if only the man wasn't so powerful as to be a god slayer, what then? The incision of all of Forsyth's thinly veiled barbs was not fatal yet, however. "That mage was spying on us," he returned to his earlier desire to interrogate the prisoner.

"Ah yes." Forsyth had the gall to look abashed, stroking the scar on his cheek. "And yet it seems to me that intelligence gathering is not one of _your_ specialties, Jellik, considerable though those are. Still, we can go over all of that tonight. I assume you'll want to inspect the area?" He grinned. "Urzo's boys are very good though. It's quite secure."

Gears whirled, circumstances sliding into place. So many possibilities, so many variables. The facts, however, were the same that they'd been since Forsyth had killed the Captain. "Yeel," Jellik said, flatly, his eyes not quite there. If he went to Yeel, what then? After all these years, it would give him an opportunity to look into one or two matters that had not quite been concluded. Abruptly, Jellik smiled, his good humor was (or as much of it as he could have, given the uncertainty of new men being all around him) restored. "Why not?" Forsyth's mouth twitched a lift at the corner. It occurred to Jellik that Forsyth feared him. That thought brought a glow into his eyes.

"Well," Urzo bellowed, reminding everybody that he was there, "You've got details, but I've got details! And a feast. Let's talk about my details, eh?" One meaty hand enveloped Forsyth's shoulder, but the man shifted his weight with a cat-like grace, being not at all off-balance from the touch. Jellik could only marvel once again at the smoothness of Forsyth's training, wherever he had gotten it.

"Ah yes," Forsyth said, his expression lightening. "We are rather tired, old friend. You've got stores laid by?" The two of them stepped off, continuing in much the same vein.

Jellik stood there, watching them go. He gnawed at his lower lip, resisting the urge to just kill Forsyth and have it over with. There were still other pleasures in this life, and at least this way, whatever insane scheme the northerner possessed, Granseal would be destroyed.

He turned and found Clovis loitering uncertainly by his shoulder. "Why do you ride with us, traitor?" He started off, a ways back down the mountain trail, infuriated at the need to be reduced to this. For a god slayer though… And besides, Jellik thought, how could mere sunlight be so beautiful? Sloping through the mountains like this, piercing tree, flower, and water alike. He felt the uncharacteristic tug of sentiment on his heart as he thought of the Yeeli, living by these mountains for centuries. _It's been so long._ He blinked back a sudden burning in his eyes. "I've quite forgotten," he said, knowing by the footfalls that Clovis still followed.

"You'll get no pleasure baiting me." The sound of expectoration. Finished, doubtless with those disgusting leaves that he was so fond of chewing. "By my lights we both betrayed Granseal."

Jellik turned, pebbles scrambling away from the abrupt motion in his ankle, his knife in his hand. Clovis's sword was trained on his chest, the older man's eyes wary. "You want to finish this here? Forsyth won't mind. Urzo's boys obviously aren't starving so he doesn't actually need you."

Clovis spoke, Jellik surmised, more to assure himself than to he did to Jellik. Such were the foibles of men. No, of more concern by far was the fact that he hadn't heard the sound of Clovis's sword being drawn. He took half a step back, slipping his knife back into his belt. "That ready for me?"

Clovis did not sheath his blade, but he did lower the point. "I fought with a man like you once. Pays to be careful."

Jellik's mouth quirked. _For a traitor, it certainly would_. Still, Clovis was delightful fun. It had been far too long since Jellik had had anyone so near to his own level to compete with. Such were the hardships of being an assassin. He turned, peering up the slope. "Come," he murmured striking off of the trail. "If I remember aright, there's a path out behind Yeel this way. I want to see if it's still there."

He strode off, not waiting for a reply and a few moments later the telltale sound of crunching leaves in rhythm sounded behind him.

* * *

His forehead was slick with sweat… the wages of his agony. Cursed arrogance. His life, his life had been so far gone for so far long. Astral of Granseal was old, so old and frail and to what great causes had his life gone? To what mighty purposes?

He had always been an unkind man, he saw, with an eagle's eye. Too eager for power, arguing at every turn and always in the service of a vain and apathetic king. He had been… His back arched in electrified alarm. _Again… again these are not my thoughts! But how?_

"The resilience of you creatures has never ceased to fascinate me," his tormentor resumed, his voice holding the air of confession. "You're too distracted to believe me wizard, but for your frail body to so resist these efforts to own your mind is incredible. It's your magical training, I suppose. You're certainly the most accomplished of your kind that I can presently recall. Have you ever wondered about the sources of magic, wizard?"

Pain slackened off for a moment and the exhaustion crushed what little resistance he could gather. "Don't understand," he rasped, knowing in that peculiar way that a man who can only choose his versions of torment can know that the complaint was hollow.

Pure roiling agony swept through his mind. Sir Astral had come to recognize this as the uncoiled fist of the devil's power. A direct blow. His captor seemed to reserve that punishment only for what insolence angered him. "Knowledge, wizard, knowledge for knowledge, that was the agreement! Surrender your knowledge and I will allow you glimpses of eternity!"

Astral writhed knowing that he had only seconds before the next blow. The devil loved tormenting him with false hopes. The blow never came. His eyes flickered open and in the shadow of the wall, he saw the ratman. "My lord," the shaman began, "can be stern, I realize. It grieves me personally that all your talent should be wasted on this futility."

Astral endeavored to breathe and sucked in a startled gasp at the continued absence of agony. "I do not… remember," he murmured.

The ratman smiled, waving a free paw. "Shaita," he introduced himself. "You know, this isn't the first time I've witnessed this either." For a moment a shadow hung across the ratman's mouth. Astral stared at it. His mouth seemed too wide. "I discovered my lord some time ago. If you offer your power to him, he will-"

"He wants the unification!" Astral groaned, his eyes opening again in the horror of realization. "Lies!"

"Wizard!" Always the same, always bombastic and jubilant… always there. "So you do know of those ancient wars. You'll have to forgive me this invasion, but for this subject… I need your face."

Faster than the human eye could follow something dark and powerful snaked forward, molding itself across Astral's cheekbones. He screamed.

* * *

Sweat rolled down Clatt's face. It was this which first stirred him from the stupors of insensibility. His head was rather sore as well, though thankfully he didn't recognize any other symptoms of a hangover. It took him a few moments to connect his disjointed thoughts with his last clear memories.

The knife at his throat. Safe then, to assume that he'd been captured. Tears sprang to his eyes. It wasn't bloody fair. Why was he always waylaid by these small and unimportant concerns? A great man such as himself should not have to deal with it.

He blinked several times owlishly, though he made no effort to move. The longer that his captors thought he was still out, the more chances he could learn something that would get him out of this predicament and quickly.

Instead, Clatt did what he had always done best: kept his head down long enough to get the lay of the land. It had served him well, even when High Commander Lynx had made doing so virtually impossible. He had always had his observational prowess to rely on.

He could hear the harsh sounds of grunting and movement, laughter and axes. But not of battle. He was at the site of some activity, that much was certain, but little more was certain than that. And overall, he had to acknowledge that that made his position much worse than it might have been otherwise. Indeed, had something been going on that would allow Clatt to escape then that was one thing, but if this was merely some tight operation then he was in a bad way.

The mage exhaled. If only he could think! Clearly his options were limited. Reaching on his power might get him out of this pit, but it wouldn't likely get him away alive. Too many axes too close for comfort and he was in real danger of dying, oh… _Calm!_

He looked at his hands and found that they were shaking. Could he call on his god's powers, pray to his mysterious new lord? Would it be safe to do so? Clatt thought not. Whoever his patron was, that power had wanted him to serve. Not to require rescue. The one other possibility, then, was Lemon. But where could the cursed swordsman have gotten himself off to? He could scry Lemon, he supposed. That would probably be easy enough to conceal, but it would be better to wait until the night.

Indeed, all of Clatt's best options resolved around waiting for the moment. And little though he liked more dangerous waiting, survival was Clatt's finest area of expertise.

* * *

Lord Paul Chelsted's body felt fluttery. Strangely dislocated from the present. It was as though he could feel the shimmering waves of greatness enclosing him. He drew in a long breath appreciating the sensation in his head, so light, and yet so clear… He uttered a mild curse. His mind was wandering again.

He leant forward, straightening his back, seeking for a more comfortable position. The satin coverlets creased and then remolded themselves to him. The enormous pillows barely moved. He lifted one finger. "Again."

Tiberius's mouth was tight with bad humor. "My lord-"

"Again. We must arrive at the truth of this matter."

"Lord Saentz rode out to ambush Lord Bowie's forces. Nothing has been announced, but Lord Odney has returned, alone. We must assume that Lord Saentz and all his power have been annihilated."

Tiberius was one of those rare men for whom resentments decided. In most cases that Lord Paul Chelsted could presently recall men defined themselves by their fears, by their weaknesses. Men, in essence, had a desire to forget the particulars and focus on the broad strokes of their lives. This recognition was one of many that spoke to Lord Paul's own brilliance for he saw beyond that. But Tiberius, he reluctantly had to concede, was a greater man than he had initially given him credit for. Tiberius forgot nothing. "Lord Saentz is dead or near enough that he can make no practical difference."

Lord Paul's first several nights had been an agony. It was the wine back in Nikki's room that had done it, slicing open the palm of his hand on that unclean ceramic. Healing magic was not nearly as efficacious at curing disease as it was in preventing it. Once those poisons spread through the body… Lord Paul Chelsted had wept. He had flailed, clenched at his coverlets, resisted, begged, threatened, re-visited more old memories than he cared to mention and through it all, _he had wept in gratitude_.

The illness was a rebirth, he now realized. The first thought, the first coherent thought that had come to him was the realization that this world must not end. He had recalled his mission and it puzzled him now with the bemusement of one who has moved past a madness to recall how sidetracked he had been earlier. The gods had sent him a comet and he had done no more than to… rail against their circumstances. It had been a mistake, Lord Paul could now acknowledge with a clearer head, to think that the power was meant to come to him before Lord Kronos. Kronos… Kronos was a man who created a much more congenial atmosphere for true stability to be restored. Stability, after all, was only valued in its absence. "And Odney has practically walled himself into his quarters you say?"

"My lord," Tiberius snapped, no longer bothering to even pretend patience, "that hardly matters now. We've war with Granseal all over again, whether we'd will it or no. This is a time to strike!"

"Nobody could possibly accuse you of being devious, General." Lord Paul admired the way the sunlight streaming through the window framed Tiberius, played across his face. Yes, he was coming to appreciate the virtues, few though they were, of this violent man more all the time. And subtler too than one might expect. "Go to Kronos, Tiberius. Beg him for useful employment. We are at war as you so justly point out and Lord Kronos is the regent until a new king can be selected."

Tiberius's eyes narrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You want useful employment don't you?" Lord Paul waved a hand not waiting for Tiberius to answer. "Of course you do, you always have. And in such unimaginative arts, you are to be relied upon above all others."

An explosive burst of breath. "You have not inspired confidence, you realize. I warned you not to trust Lord Zocc. I warned you not to-"

"Speaking of Zocc, for the nonce, what is he up to?"

Tiberius scowled. "You'd get a better answer from that man's spies than from me. He doesn't talk to me. Why would he?"

Ricketts came bustling forward out of the background, his eyes slow and dull with stupidity. Nonetheless, Lord Paul felt that fresh surge of gratitude all the same. Ricketts had always been there, every time that he'd needed him. Even now. He idly thought of Nikki again, the light slapping sound of loins straining against each other. All that time taking custom, laughing at Lord Paul Chelsted… the hot urgency of their passion together… oh the insult of being thwarted by a mere cunt! It very nearly aroused him, even with Tiberius's eyes bulging with bad temper.

"My lord," Ricketts mumbled. Lord Paul frowned. It was the most irritating of bad habits, for a man to try to pretend that he was not speaking to you when he was. And it had become increasingly common in Ricketts as Lord Paul was forced through this convalescence. _He knows only the man that I was. Brilliant, perhaps, but even then not nearly as magnificent as I have become. _Oh, Ricketts doubtless judged him for the affair with Nikki. His head nearly swam at the thought of simply riding in, claiming her… But Nikki's insolence could be dealt with later. There were always other women. Gingerly, Ricketts held forth one of his steaming mixtures. "It's time that you drank this again."

Lord Paul's nose wrinkled. Tiberius rose, tall, broad-shouldered, yet still hunched over. "It is time perhaps that I left you to rest, my lord."

"Nonsense," Lord Paul cried, forcing half of the scalding medicine through his teeth. "Tiberius, we have much and more to discuss." A sudden wave of weakness hit him. "Yet perhaps… I tell you, Tiberius. You must go to Kronos. You must ask him to honor you. If nothing else, it will give us a better notion of his intentions. And Ricketts…" Really, the rigors of rebirth were too much to put up with. He was as weak as any newborn child. "Ask after Odney."

"My lord." Ricketts's eyebrows, they had always looked so wooden, lifted. "Is not Lord Odney now our enemy?"

"I have no use for enemies!" He waved an airy hand, gulping down the rest of the bitter liquid in front of him. "Now leave me. I still must gather strength." Tiberius offered a perfunctory nod and strode from the room. The disrespect was of minimal concern. All Lord Paul needed there was to demonstrate how victory was still to be obtained. And for that… "Leave me," he repeated, more sharply.

Ricketts backed slowly from the room, an expression curiously mixed between tenderness and awe on his face. _Does he see truly? Has he finally seen?_ Lord Paul put the matter of self-congratulations to the side, sorting through the information that he had. The high lords were not truly committed, fickle creatures that they were. That was the lesson he ought to have taken from Lord Jarvos, that day before the sickness swept through him. No matter. He had realized it now and that truth still served.

Lord Kronos was very nearly in his reach… if he could sort through the implications properly. The final push would have to come from Lord Zocc, however. That was clear enough. But how to get Lord Zocc to give him what he needed and to keep his respect at the same time? Damned Granserian customs! They made it impossible for a strong man to move.

Lord Paul stared up at the ceiling, considering. The Green Baron had deceived him once. He sat up again. That initial deception might be just what he needed. _Yes. If Tiberius is here or in the field… and Lord Kronos can be goaded. _The only question for this plan was one of price. He lay back against the pillows, his thoughts on Lord Zocc and Nikki in equal measure. _And what price is a truly great man unwilling to pay for a world that must not end?_ With Grans itself imperiled, what price indeed?

* * *

Wincing at every little moment that he made, Gerhalt clung furiously to the staff. The old man must have left it by the bedside. It humiliated him that he needed to use it, but he still didn't know what actions would strain his wounds too badly.

Still, despite gritting his teeth in pain and humiliation, despite the disturbing memories and half-revelations he was still trying not to consider, this was the first time in days that Gerhalt had felt even remotely fully aware of his surroundings. So for once, the anger and panic weren't too much to deal with.

He limped forward, trying to put as little weight on his right side in general as he could. After a few minutes (more than Gerhalt would ever have cared to admit to anyone who asked) he made it over to the door and out into the next room. His eye roved, cold and appraising. The old man had apparently helped him, but that meant less than nothing. Gerhalt had been stabbed in the back by one of his own men, drugged and half insensate ever since then. Things were not, he knew, always what they seemed.

It was a small cottage, snugly made, though not overly tidy. Mugs, bowls, cups and trays were strewn loosely around various wooden carved chairs and the enormous rough wood table in the center of the room. His host was a carpenter, perhaps. There were a few scrolls lying around and a fairly empty, dusty shelf, though one level of it did have a stack of scrolls. Aside from that, the only item of any abundance was candles.

Gerhalt limped a few steps further forward, to look out of the small window on the north side of the cottage. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, making him blink. It had been so long… He started to turn around, and stopped feeling a painful soreness in his throat. It took him a moment to realize that he was thirsty again. He glanced regretfully around the room, half-reaching for one of the cups before he thought better of it. He could not trust the situation, not yet.

Instead, he forced himself painfully over to the door. He'd need to see what things were like outside sooner or later and if he was attacked, he could always kill the old man fairly quickly so long as he didn't try to spring. A beastman's claws were deadly things, even if Gerhalt was half-incapacitated.

Gingerly he hobbled towards the door, and there Gerhalt stood a while. His legs were beginning to feel shaky beneath his own weight; there was a fluttery sensation in his breast. _Am I dying?_ He did not have the strength to pursue this activity, and yet how to ascertain his circumstances else? His claws rested on the latch a moment longer before he grunted in disappointment. He'd have to try again after at least a brief rest. His shoulders shifted back, and the door suddenly creaked forward.

He tried to spin about for readiness and nearly fell to the ground at the sudden screaming protest in his back.

Framed by the slanting sunlight of a dying afternoon, the old man that Gerhalt had only scarcely recalled stood in the doorway. Bald, he was, and long bearded, but wearing the flowery apron of a cook. Gloves were on his hands, and one fist clenched a bunch of flowers.

"Gardening," Gerhalt rasped, not knowing why he stated the obvious, not knowing why the sight of such universal labor brought him fresh desire to weep.

"Wulfling!" The note of surprise was so far buried under good cheer, that had Gerhalt not been listening for it, he doubted he'd have noticed. "A bit more yourself, hmm?" With that the old man stepped forward—Gerhalt's claws tensed in fear—and past him towards the table at the hut's center. Gerhalt stared longingly at the door, a moment. His host had not closed it. But what the meaning of all of this? Some new torment since… the battle… Pain blazed in his side again at the thought. Gerhalt had avoided thinking about his long period of shaky uncertainties. But sooner or later he'd have to think it over, really realize what had happened. There was still so much he didn't know. Only vague impressions. Dare he chance the door? With his wounds, he would be too slow to outrun even the old human, and yet… Dare he not take the opportunity?

"If you plan on staying a while longer," the nasal tones rang out behind him, almost making Gerhalt jump, "then there's dinner in it."

His mouth moved, hesitating over the dozens of questions he could ask. "Dinner," he repeated, his stomach making the decision for him.

The man smiled. "You're from the wars, I see. Bad wounds."

Gerhalt collapsed into a chair, his inner voice screaming at him to run or to attack. But trust had already been given. Trust that had served him poorly once before… "Don't ask me about that." His voice sounded strange in his ears and he realized that he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard himself simply say something.

"I'm Yulfei," the gardener said, holding out his calloused palm.

Gerhalt stared at it, the muscle, the scars… "You've seen fighting too."

"Ah. Yes." The old man turned his back on Gerhalt busying himself at the counter. Soon the smell of fresh bread and raw meat filled the air. Yulfei turned back to him. "I got tired of the killing, though. This might take a while. Can you dress the meat for me?"


End file.
